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MARY LYON, FOUNDER OF MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE. 



DORIS 

A 

Mount Holyoke 

Girl 

BY 

JULIA REDFORD TOMKINSON 

Illustrated 



AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY 
150 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK 



Copyright, 1913, by 
THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY 



9 


©CI.A35879 5 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

i: 

A CHILD 

• 

• 

. 

5 

CHAPTER 

ii : 

GIRLHOOD 

• 

• 

• 

14 

CHAPTER 

hi: 

AWAY FROM HOME . 

• 

• 

. 

24 

CHAPTER 

iv: 

A PRECIOUS YEAR . 

• 

• 

. 

39 

CHAPTER 

v: 

OPEN DOORS . 




53 

CHAPTER 

vi: 

OPPORTUNITY . 

• 


. 

66 

CHAPTER 

vii : 

MT. HOLYOKE . 

• 

• 

. 

81 

CHAPTER VIII : 

LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 


• 

. 

98 

CHAPTER 

ix: 

UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 

• 

. 

111 

CHAPTER 

x: 

FORESHADOWING 



• 

125 

CHAPTER 

xi : 

SUNSHINE AND SHADE 



♦ 

141 

CHAPTER 

xii : 

DARKNESS . 



. 

152 

CHAPTER XIII : 

BLESSEDNESS OF WORK 


• 

. 

163 

CHAPTER 

xiv : 

LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 

• 

• 

171 

CHAPTER 

xv : 

FRUITION 




177 


3 




■ 



















































CHAPTER I 
A CHILD 

N INE by the clock on a summer day, along 
a country road in northern Connecticut, 
bordered with old stone walls covered with 
lichens, three children tripped merrily on their 
way, now under the shade of spreading trees, 
now through stretches of sunlight and over stout 
plank bridges, their bare feet oblivious of stones. 
They reached at last a mountain path, into 
which they turned, through wide bars, toward 
Huckleberry Hill. 

Their tin pails made an enchanting tink-tink 
with the pint cups they had brought for drink- 
ing at the deep cool spring under an overhang- 
ing rock and for the frequent measuring of the 
black and blue berries they were sure to find. 
One pail was filled with a substantial luncheon, 
and the day promised hours of pleasure with 
hardly recognized toil. 

Up, up they climbed, by patches of mountain 
laurel, by spicy clumps of sweet fern, where 
wild rose vines trailed in tangled thickets, to 
the huckleberry bushes that stretched far in 
scattered bunches, with crisp dry grass between 
for sitting-places. 


5 


6 


DORIS 


Never an odor, on Scottish heath or Southern 
meadow, on river bank or in cultivated garden, 
like the fragrance of Huckleberry Hill ! Never 
a sound more suggestive of delight than the 
tink-tink of tin cups and pails, swinging up a 
mountain path! 

They threw themselves at last on Table Rock, 
a broad flat stone claimed for their own. It 
was their upland couch, their dining-room, and 
best of all their hall of confidence. It was so 
easy there to talk of the mystery of clouds, of 
brooks, of birds and all the wonders of a world 
yet new! 

4 4 Clouds are sheep and wool put up there to 
dry,” Doris had declared, until her last birth- 
day. It being her tenth, Mark, with older- 
brother authority, had insisted that such child- 
ish nonsense should be laid aside. She lay back 
on the rock, calling as a final protest to the 
fleecy flocks above, 4 4 Why can’t I b’lieve it if 
I want to? I b’lieve they’re real live mother 
sheep, with lots of baby lambs cuddled up.” 

It was so easy, there, to wonder at the blue 
of the violets. Why were there so few blue 
flowers? Was it because the sky was so big 
and blue and they needed 4 4 pink and white 
posies and red, red rosies” to make up? Keren 
thought so. 

44 1 read the other day, in a book Mr. Mather 


A CHILD 


7 


lent me,” said Mark, ‘ ‘ about ‘the sea, blue and 
fathomless as the sky.’ Some day I am going 
to see it.” 

“Me too, Buddy!” shouted Doris, with em- 
phatic nods of her curly chestnut head; “you’re 
only three years older ’n me, an’ I’m going to 
do every single thing you do.” 

Her blue eyes looked adoringly into his, clear 
and gray, with shadowy depths. He tossed 
back his fair hair and fanned himself with his 
broad hat. 

“Well, Baby, we’ll see.” 

“You can do anything, Doris! You’ve got a 
nice name, a big brother, a sweet, sweet mother 
and brown curly hair. What could you do, I’d 
like to know, if you was an orphan bound out 
to Mis’ Jones until you was eighteen, had red 
hair” — she gave a heavy auburn braid a vicious 
tug — “and such an awful name, Keren- 
happuch?” 

“Oh, that’s not so bad, the name I mean,” 
said Mark comfortingly. “ Where ’d you get 
it?” 

“Last birthday, when I was twelve, Mis’ 
Jones told me about it ’cause I cried. She ain’t 
no ways mean, Mis’ Jones ain’t; she’s kind, 
only she don’t know how to mother. She said a 
queer old uncle of my mother’s promised to 
leave me a thousand dollars when I was twenty- 


8 


BORIS 


one, if he could name me some Bible name that 
wa’n’t common. So he called me Keren- 
happuch after Job’s youngest daughter. It’s 
just awful!” 

“Nevie mind!” Doris patted the brown 
hands clasped around Keren’s knee. 

“If it had only been Elizabeth or Rachel or 
Mary! The Bible says, ‘In all the land were 
no women found so fair as the daughters of 
Job,’ and I ain’t even fair to look upon.” 

“You’ve got beautiful brown eyes,” said 
Mark with honest boyish admiration. 

“And a nose full of freckles!” She sighed 
disconsolately. 

“Who’ll pick the first pint?” shouted Mark, 
springing to his feet; “here is a nice bush for 
you, Doris.” 

“Mother,” said Doris, one winter evening 
long afterward, “what did the minister mean 
this afternoon when he said, ‘Mark is called to 
some great work, Mrs. Banner’?” 

“You cannot understand, my child; you are 
only a little girl.” 

“But, mother, I can understand a great deal 
now ; you know I am twelve. ’ ’ 

A bright fire flamed and crackled and glowed 
in the wide kitchen fireplace. A kettle sending 
out savory whiffs of steam hung on the crane, 


A CHILD 


9 


a teapot simmered on coals drawn out on the 
hearth, and a table was spread with a snowy 
homespun cloth and dishes of dark blue ware. 
Like the widow’s in Chaucer’s old tale, 

“Here bord was served most with wliyt 
and blak, 

Milk and broun breed, in which she fond 
no lak.” 

Eye bread and butter and a pitcher of milk 
stood waiting. An empty platter suggested the 
steaming dish. Candles were ready for light- 
ing, and a tray with snuffers and a box of paper 
lighters, white and pink and green, stood beside 
them. 

The room was full of the atmosphere of home 
with many evidences of daily toil. A “big” 
spinning-wheel stood in one corner, and there 
were signs that the “little” wheel was not far 
away. A peep into the “loom room” would 
have found it keeping company with reel and 
bobbins. But while the hands folded for a mo- 
ment in the mother’s lap were hard with toil, 
the mother’s face was fine under bands of chest 
nut hair, dark as Doris’s own save for silver 
threads at the temples. Her white cap-strings 
were untied, and a kerchief folded over her 
homespun dress left her full white throat bare. 

Plain living was evidently her lot and high 
thinking her habit. On a table by the east 


10 


Dorns 


window lay writing materials, a battered Latin 
Grammar, a Virgil and lexicon, a copy of 
Euclid and a little book of Greek paradigms. 
On a stool near by, a modern Geography, Col- 
burn’s “ First Lessons in Arithmetic,” a 4 4 His- 
tory of the United States,” a ‘ 4 Peter Parley” 
and an English Grammar lay in careful order 
on a framed slate. Three bookshelves fastened 
to the wall bore an unusual assortment for a 
farmer’s kitchen. A well-used Milton, an 
equally worn Shakespeare, “ Watts’s Hymns” 
and a “ Pilgrim’s Progress” evidently held the 
place of honor. “ Watts on the Mind,” 
“Ancient Geography,” “Ancient and Modern 
History,” “Sullivan’s Political Class Book,” 
“Botany,” “Newman’s Rhetoric,” “Intellec- 
tual Philosophy,” Cicero’s “Orations,” “The 
Anabasis,” “Butler’s Analogy,” read some 
faded titles. Opening a theological work, the 
name “Simeon West, his book. Minister of 
Warren Parish,” gave a clue to the situation. 

Hannah West was the only child of this 
preacher of Calvinism, whose prophet and in- 
terpreter, Jonathan Edwards, laid inflexible 
bounds to creed and practice. While his daugh- 
ter learned from her mother all kinds of prac- 
tical housewifery, the father chose that she 
should spend two hours a day in his study. All 
her life Hannah bore evidence of this rare op- 


A CHILD 11 

portunity, and it found full expression in her 
motherhood. 

Eight years had flowers and snow, with 
changing seasons, covered the grave of her 
farmer lover, and since the day of her widowed 
loneliness began she had resolutely set her life 
to a standard of brave cheer, for the children’s 
sake. In such an atmosphere they grew in 
grace and stature. There was much regular 
labor, much merriment, some play and a gen- 
eral wholesomeness of living that made exist- 
ence full of interest, and hope for the future 
strong. 

“How can Mark do great things, mother? 
He’s the funniest boy I ever saw. Why, just 
this morning he pulled off your cap, put it on 
his own head and danced all ’round. He picked 
me up in the barn and set me on a board. I just 
couldn’t jump and I squealed and squealed. I 
wasn’t ’fraid, you know, with Buddy, and he 
winked and blinked and then looked solemn till 
I laughed so I cried. He does such antics, 
mother. There he comes with Tabby on his 
shoulder.” 

“Halloa, Crinkles. Here’s the milk, mother, 
good measure to-night. It is good to get in! 
Yes, everything is snug; there will be snow be- 
fore morning. I’m as hungry as a bear! Any- 
thing to eat?” 


12 


DORIS 


“Plenty, thank God.” 

“Say, mother,” said Doris as they gathered 
around the table, “if only ’Melia was here with 
the babies, wouldn’t it be perfect? I feel so 
big to be aunt to twinny-boys, only I never saw 
’em. Won’t they ever come home, mother?” 

“Fifty miles is too far for babies to drive 
this weather; we must wait patiently, Doris.” 

“Yes, I s’pose. There is a good deal of far- 
ness in this world, isn’t there, mother?” Doris 
asked wistfully. 

“Yes, dear, but more nearness after all. 
What did Mr. Mather say about your lesson, 
Mark?” 

“Well, not so bad. That Greek verb is the 
queerest customer I ever got hold of — beats the 
Latin all to pieces for variety.” 

“I’m going to learn it some day too!” 
Doris’s blue eyes were big and round. 

“It’s too hard for your little brown head,” 
said Mark, but Doris shook her curls, chanting 
defiantly, 

“Yes I be, 

You will see!” 

“What is that, my son?” 

“Halloa!” A man’s deep voice calling from 
the road, and a sharp rap, brought Mark to his 
feet. As he threw open the door Keren, clasp- 


A CHILD 13 

ing a large bundle in ber arms, stepped over the 
threshold. 

4 4 Say, Mark, ’ ’ called Mr. J ones from the road, 
4 4 me and Mis’ Jones have got to go over to the 
home farm; brother Jim’s took very bad and 
suddin. The hired man can take care of him- 
self and the critters, but we can’t leave the gal 
there and we can’t take her. Ask your mother 
if she can stay with you. I don’t know when 
we’ll git back.” 

4 4 Mother?” 

4 4 Yes, Mark, and welcome.” 

The door closed and these lives, to be inex- 
tricably bound together, were shut into the in- 
effable warmth and shelter of a home. Outside 
snow fell softly through a windless night, until 
the morning broke on a world white as the drift- 
ing clouds of heaven. 


CHAPTER II 
GIRLHOOD 


JANUARY 1 , 1842. Bellfield, Connecticut. 
^ I am Doris Mary Banner. To-day I am 
fifteen years old, and as it is New Year’s day 
too, I want to celebrate it in some special way. 
Of course all my birthdays have come on the 
first day of the year, but none of them has been 
so important. I am not going to be a little girl 
any more, but a real young lady; my frock is 
made four inches longer. So I am going to keep 
a journal and write down what I do and what I 
think. That is my special celebration, to begin 
my journal. 

I have a little room all to myself, up-stairs, 
and first I will describe that, not because it is 
the best thing I have, but because I am begin- 
ning my journal here, and I am always going to 
keep it here. 

Our house has a gambrel roof, so they had to 
make the windows stick out- of the roof to make 
room inside, and my room has one of these 
windows and one at the end that doesn’t stick 
out. The end window opens toward the south, 
and the other toward the east. That is the one 
I love best, and I printed the word PEACE on 
14 


GIRLHOOD 


15 


stiff cardboard, in big letters, and put it over 
the window. My brother Mark hung it up for 
me, because he is so tall and I couldn’t reach. 
The reason I printed PEACE is because that 
was the name of the chamber where Christian 
stayed, that opened toward the east, in that 
dear, dear book of 4 ‘Pilgrim’s Progress” that 
Mr. Bunyan wrote when he was shut up in Bed- 
ford jail. When my mother saw that word she 
said, “Dear child, peace comes from within. 
Don’t forget that,” and her eyes were so blue 
and sweet when she said it that I hugged her. 

I must write down some of the things I see 
from my window. We live on a farm a mile 
from the village street. Our house is on the 
side of a hill, and as I look out I see the road 
in the valley that winds around another hill 
and looks as if it came to an end in that place. 
We call it the “bend o’ the road,” and I al- 
ways look there for Mark as he comes from the 
village, and run to meet him when I can. The 
whole valley is many miles wide, green in sum- 
mer, and in winter, after a snowstorm, white as 
the clouds. The hills on the other side of the 
valley are far away and often purple at eve- 
ning, but in the early morning a rain of rosy 
light falls on them just as the sun rises. It 
sometimes makes me almost cry. Far away I 
see the gleaming of the river here and there. 


16 


BORIS 


My room is so dear ! It has white muslin cur- 
tains at the windows, and on the bed a blue and 
white coverlet that my father’s mother wove. 
I am named for her. Her sampler hangs on the 
wall, with birds and trees and the alphabet 
worked on it in cross-stitch, and her name, 
Doris Mary, at the bottom. Mother said, long 
ago, that when I grew up I should have it. I 
am now grown up, but my hair will curl all over 
my head, whatever I do, and I can’t make that 
look grown up a bit. 

Keren hates her hair because it is straight 
and red, but Mark and I think it is beautiful. 
It has dark shadows in it, but when the sun 
shines on it it looks like gold. Mother says 
there was a great painter once, whose name was 
Titian, who always painted girls’ hair that 
color. She has dark brown eyes, but she does 
not know that they are beautiful too. They are 
soft and full of light. 

Keren is my friend, and I love her very much, 
but not best. Oh, no ! My mother, Amelia and 
Mark are my very bestest best. Mother is the 
sweetest that ever lived, but I always knew, 
even when I was little, that I must never dis- 
obey her, and I feel just the same now that I 
am grown up. Mother says that it was very 
hard to teach me to mind. One day, when I was 
only two years old, my father told me to kneel 


GIRLHOOD 


17 


down beside him when they had prayers, and 
I said, “No, no, other chair !” It took him two 
hours to get me to be willing to do it, naughty 
little me ! 

I do not remember my dear father; he died 
long ago. Mark looks just like him, mother 
says, with his fair hair and great gray eyes. 
Mark is grand and he knows a great deal. He 
always takes care of mother and me (he is three 
years older than I am), but he is a dreadful 
tease sometimes. He calls me Crinkles because 
my hair is so curly — it is dark brown like 
mother’s — and sets me down in the most unex- 
pected places, perhaps in the middle of the big 
feather bed, and goes off looking as solemn as 
an owl. Then I have to fix that bed all over 
again, for mother is so very particular! He 
used to put on her white cap and dance all over 
the room. He looked dreadfully funny and we 
laughed until it hurt ; but he is too big for that 
now. But if I set down all the funny things 
Mark does my journal will have no room for 
anything about me, and that is what I am keep- 
ing this journal for. 

Jan . 15. I did not finish about my best. 
’Melia is one dearest, and her twinny boys are 
five years old, such dears ! They call me 
“Nantie,” and that does make me feel grown 
up indeed. They both have little white heads, 


18 


DORIS 


but Jimmy Brewster has brown eyes and 
Jobnny Brewster has blue eyes, or we could 
never tell them apart, for they are as alike as 
two peas. I don’t know ’Melia’s husband very 
well, but he must be nice or she wouldn’t love 
him. They live in Wellboro, Massachusetts, 
and we do not see them very often. It seems 
to me a sad world sometimes, because people 
who love each other have to live so far apart. 
I asked mother once if there was not a great 
deal of far-ness in the world, and she said, 
4 ‘Yes, child, but more near-ness after all, be- 
cause distance can never separate loving 
hearts.” 

I know it must be so, but I do not like the 
cruel miles that lie between. At any rate I 
have mother and Mark every day, and we will 
never, never let each other go. Mark learns 
Greek, Latin and Mathematics and recites to 
our minister, Mr. Mather. He has so much 
work to do on the farm that he cannot study 
as much as he would like, but he does the best 
he can, and Mr. Mather says he has a fine mind 
and is an excellent scholar. Mark is going to 
college some day. I want to go too, for I am 
sure girls can learn Greek and Latin as well 
as boys. Why may I not? 

Jan. 16 . I did not finish about my dears. 
Keren is next to my best. She is an orphan, 


GIRLHOOD 


19 


“ bound out” to our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. 
Jones, until she is eighteen. We do not know, 
but mother thinks she must have come of a very 
good family, she is so naturally refined. She 
has not a relation in the world. I cannot think 
of anything more dreadful. She is so well be- 
haved that mother says she is glad for me to 
have her for a friend. 

Poor Keren is so mother-hungry ! She thinks 
our mother, with her dark hair under her white 
cap, her deep blue eyes, and a kerchief, white 
as snow, folded over the bosom of her dress, 
the loveliest thing in the world. So do I. 

Mrs. Jones is very kind, but she doesn’t know 
how to mother . She thinks the queer old uncle 
who named Keren forgot about the thousand 
dollars he was going to give her, for he died 
long ago. The name is a great affliction to her, 
as well as her straight red hair and freckled 
nose. But the worst of all is that she cannot 
even remember her father and mother and her 
heart cries for them. Mr. Jones is an ignorant 
man, but he never speaks roughly to his wife or 
Keren, and mother says that he is at heart a 
gentleman. So Keren has many good times 
after all, and she and I have crossed our hearts 
and promised to be friends forever. 

Jan . 20. I am very much puzzled and out of 
sorts. I asked our minister to-day why boys 


20 


DORIS 


should go to college and girls not. He said, 
“ Don’t bother your little head about that; a 
college would be improper for females. They 
should know how to read and write and cipher 
a little, and learn some grammar and history. 
That is enough for them, for keeping house is 
their work. Too much learning would unfit 
them for their sphere. Be content with the 
place God has given you.” 

My cheeks were hot and red, for I was angry ! 
Mother looked gravely at me, and I knew that 
I must keep still. I have such a quick temper, 
like cayenne pepper! It often gets me into 
trouble. 

Mother knows far more than reading and 
writing and ciphering! Her father did not 
think that enough for females. How dared Mr. 
Mather say that in her presence! Perhaps he 
forgot, for the moment, that she knows Latin 
and Algebra and Euclid and History and much 
more besides. Her father, Grandfather West, 
was a minister and he had only Hannah, mry 
mother, for a child, so he taught her just as if 
she had been a boy until she was married. Her 
mother taught her to spin on the big wheel and 
on the little wheel and to weave cloth on the 
loom. She does all these things yet, but she 
reads to us from Mr. Shakespeare’s plays and 
from Mr. Spenser’s “ Faerie Queene.” I just 


GIRLHOOD 21 

love Miranda and Portia, Puck and Ariel, Per- 
dita and Una. 

We have lovely times when mother reads. 
We sit in the kitchen with a big fire in the fire- 
place, and Keren comes over with her knitting. 
I sew carpet-rags and Mark cracks nuts and 
whittles out such pretty things. Sometimes 
Keren sews rags too, just for fun, and I get my 
stint done sooner. We do not have time for 
such blissful evenings often, but it is lovely 
when we do. Then after the reading we have 
nuts and apples and Mark takes Keren home. 

No mother is like ours, so wise and sweet, and 
though she is a female that knows Latin, no 
butter is better than ours; everybody says so. 
Since I am grown up I make the butter, and 
mother said this morning, “ Daughter Doris, 
this is every bit as good as mine.” When she 
calls me that I know that she is very much 
pleased, and I am as proud as proud can be! 

February 1. It is decided that I shall not go 
to the district school, but study at home with 
Mark and mother. I am going to begin Latin ! 
Think of that, you dear journal! Oh, dear! 
you can T think ! But you seem to me like some 
live person, to whom I can say what I please and 
you will never, never tell. That is why I began 
your acquaintance. So I am going to talk to 
you just as if you were alive, and this is my 


22 


DORIS 


first secret: I shook my fist at the minister’s 
back (hard) this morning, when he went by the 
house, and called (very softly, though I wanted 
to scream it), “I’ll show you that a female has 
brains !” My face was hot, as it always is when 
I am angry, and Mark came along just then. 

“Well, Pepper-Pot, what is the matter now? 
You mustn’t get so angry, little sister,” he said 
gravely. Oh, Mark can be grave enough when 
he tries ! 

“But he is so horrid!” 

“You forget, Doris, how much I owe him, 
how much he has helped me all these years. 
Can’t you forgive him for my sake?” 

1 ‘ Oh, Mark, ’ ’ I cried, 4 ‘ I can forgive anybody 
anything for your sake,” and I held him tight 
around his neck. “You are the dearest brother 
in the wide, wide world. I will try, indeed 1 
will, to control my temper, but you don’t know 
how hard it is.” 

“Yes, I know, little sister,” he answered 
gently, “for I have to fight even harder than 
you, if that is any comfort to you.” 

Feb. 10. I took my knitting over to do my 
stint with Keren to-day, and my Latin Gram- 
mar. She is seventeen and does not go to 
school. Mother lends her books to read and 
helps her all she can. Tears came to her lovely 
eyes when she saw the book. 


GIRLHOOD 


23 


4 4 Oh, Doris, how I envy you ! I know I could 
learn it too if I had a chance ! ’ ’ she cried. Then 
a great beautiful thought came to me. 

4 4 Could you pay for a grammar if Mark 
would get the minister to buy one? I don’t 
suppose he would buy one for a female if he 
knew it.” I hit my lips hard and my cheeks 
didn’t get hot a bit. Don’t you think, my jour- 
nal, that I am growing in grace? 

4 4 Yes, I have the money I earned picking 
berries. Mrs. Jones was kind; she told me to 
do what I liked with it. What do you mean, 
Doris?” 

I threw down my work, dragged Keren out 
of her chair and danced her all over the room. 

4 4 Then you shall learn Latin too! I’ll teach 
you every lesson I learn !” 

4 4 Oh! oh!” gasped Keren breathlessly, 4 4 do 
you mean it? Do you think I could?” 

4 4 Yes, yes, I never meant anything more in 
all my life! We’ll show them!” Keren didn’t 
know exactly what I meant, but you do and you 
certainly are a comfort. Mother says I am so 
4 4 unexpected” that I am sure it is a real relief 
to her to have me keep a journal, and since you 
are to be a live person you must have a name. 
I will make you one. J ourna 1 — cross out 
the o and the r and the 1, and Juna is left. 
Do you like it? I do. Good-night, dear Juna, 


CHAPTER IH. 

AWAY FROM HOME 

I T was a wild night, but the kitchen, the 
heart of the farmhouse home, was bright 
with leaping flames and with the strong, vital- 
izing personality of the mother. For the mo- 
ment she was alone, sitting at Mark’s study 
table by the east window, which was covered 
with worn volumes and ponderous lexicons. 
The sweet serenity of her face bore evidence to 
her intense intellectual and spiritual life and 
to her broad culture, to the infinite depths also 
of her love and self-sacrifice. To such peace a 
human soul comes only through conflict to vic- 
tory, through storm and stress to a haven of 
rest. 

“Are you ready for supper, Mark?” said his 
mother. 

“Yes, mother; just let me know that all is 
safe for the night first. The wind is on a regu- 
lar March tear, rampaging around like the lion 
he is.” 

The kitchen door shut with a furious bang 
as he went out, and opened with a swirl of wind 
as he quickly returned. 

“Kind of lonesome without the child, isn’t it? 
Now while we eat let us talk the letter over.” 
24 


'AWAY FROM HOME 25 

“You read it again, my son,” and Mark 
read : 


Wellboro, Mass., March 5 , 1843 . 
Dear Mother and Brother : — 

Doris has gone out for an hour with Jimmy 
and Johnny (who think she is adorable), and 
I take this time to write a letter of which I 
want herio know nothing at present. I cannot 
tell you how much we enjoy having her; she is 
so bright and sunny that she helps us all. You 
know that I am a very happy woman, could 
not be otherwise, with my kind husband and 
blessed babies, but mother knows how I have 
to fight a tendency to melancholy. I do believe 
that I have the victory usually, but Doris so 
overflows with life and fun that I forget that 
I have such a woeful failing. 

But it is not for myself that I am suggest- 
ing this plan. I know how much you miss the 
child, and feel that you have been very good to 
let us have her for a month, but it seems to me 
that this is an unusual opportunity for Doris. 

We have a remarkable school here now, 
to which a number of girls of her age 
are going. The teacher is a graduate of Mt. 
Holyoke Seminary, and is full of enthusiasm 
for the advanced education of females. She is 
making a great impression in the village, and 


26 


DORIS 


her pupils are doing really remarkable work. 
Doris is far beyond most girls in her studies, 
thanks to her mother and brother, but it seems 
to me that the association with Miss Patience 
Grey and her pupils would do much for her 
just now. Can you spare her for a few months? 
She can never have better teachers than she has 
at home, best of mothers and brothers, but if 
you think best we shall be glad to keep her. 

Your most affectionate daughter and sister, 
Amelia Brewster. 

The clock ticked loudly ; the flames rushed up 
the roaring chimney as silent minutes slipped 
away. 

“Well, my son, what do you think? I have 
been interested in Mt. Holyoke Female Semi- 
nary for some years. I was visiting a friend in 
Wellboro a few years ago — do you remem- 
ber? — and met the founder, Miss Mary Lyon, 
a woman of remarkable personality. She was 
full of the most contagious enthusiasm, and was 
trying to raise money to put her school on a 
secure basis. I shall never forget her earnest 
pleading for the highest opportunities for 
women. She said : 

“ ‘I do not care by what name the school is 
called, but it must become a college in fact, 
where girls may receive as broad an education 
as is possible to their brothers. 


AWAY FROM HOME 


27 


u *1 wander about without a home, scarcely 
knowing one week where I shall be the next. 
Had I a thousand lives, I could sacrifice them 
all in suffering and hardship for its sake. Did 
I possess the greatest fortune, I could readily 
relinquish it all and become poor, and more than 
poor, if its prosperity should demand it.’ 

“She looked like a pleading prophetess as 
she talked to us and asked for our help. She 
was most attractive in her personal appearance 
and wore a simple green gown, with white lace 
at her throat. Her eyes were clear and blue, 
and her curly auburn hair shone through the 
white turban which she wore, on the evening 
we called upon her. She had the merriest laugh, 
but I have never seen her intense earnestness 
equalled, and she carried a green velvet bag, 
into which she was glad to put the smallest con- 
tribution. She showed me a list ranging from 
six cents to hundreds of dollars. I slipped my 
offering — that left me another winter in my 
old cloak — into her hand at parting, and her 
warm gratitude and earnest ‘God bless you!* 
paid me many fold for the sacrifice I had 
made.” 

“But she has met with great success, 
mother . 9 9 

“Yes, after heroic labor in face of the great- 
est discouragements. I know it would be good 


28 DORIS 

for Doris to come, even indirectly, under such 
an influence.” 

“It seems to me a good thing, mother. There 
is a blue streak in the house when Doris is away, 
and a sort of east wind blowing that we don’t 
like, but it may be best for the child. But how 
will you manage without her help in the 
house 1 ’ ’ 

“Keren’s time with Mrs. Jones is up. She 
was over to-day to ask my advice as to what she 
should do next. Mrs. Jones kindly asks her to 
stay as long as she chooses, but Keren would 
like to earn money to go to school. We cannot 
pay her wages if Doris is to stay in Wellboro, 
but she can help and study as Doris has done. 
It is very hard to do without our little girl, 
Mark, but I believe it will be best. I always 
have you, my son.” 

She held out her hand and Mark laid his own, 
strong and brown, in it with a firm, reassuring 
pressure. A moment of silent communion 
passed between them, so rare was this friend- 
ship of mother and son, above and beyond their 
precious relationship. 

The plan matured rapidly, and in answer to 
Mrs. Banner’s summons Keren came a day 
later to the farmhouse on the hill. She was 
standing by a western window as Mrs. Banner 
entered the kitchen, pausing for an instant as 


AWAY FROM HOME 


29 


the growing dignity of the orphan girl and the 
gleaming beauty of her red-gold hair struck her 
as they never had before. 

Keren listened eagerly as her friend spoke of 
the opportunity so unexpectedly offered to 
Doris and the needed help in the home. 

“ Would you like to come, Keren, and help 
me and study as Doris has done?” she asked 
gently. 

“Will I come? Oh, Mrs. Banner, do you 
know what this means to me? I do not need 
to wait to give you an answer. I cannot take 
Doris’s place. I can work as hard, but I can’t 
be like her: she is so gay and sweet, and I am 
quiet and sober. But I ought to be able to 
relieve you more than she in the work, for I 
am older and stronger. I will try my best, dear 
Mrs. Banner, and I may really go on with my 
Latin?” 

“Yes; Mark says that he will find time for 
the Latin, and I will undertake the rest. What 
do you say to reviewing your arithmetic, gram- 
mar and history and fitting yourself to teach a 
district school? I feel sure you can do it.” 

“Oh, I never dreamed of doing that! and 
you think I can ? Then I will ! She drew her- 
self up to a stately height, her girlish figure a 
lovely silhouette against the sunset sky. 

Keren was soon established in her new home, 


30 


DORIS 


and life at the farm slipped quickly into quiet 
routine, despite the daily and hourly missing 
of a curly brown head, dewy violet eyes, and a 
merry laugh that filled the house with light and 
joy. Mother and brother lingered long over 
the bright letters that came from the absent 
child. Her heart was like a mountain spring 
whose clear waters held no hidden darkness, 
where sunshine lay on its sparkling surface and 
no less on the pebbles in its limpid depths. One 
summer day brought a characteristic message : 

Wellboro, Mass., June 30, 1843. 
Dear Mother and Brother — dearest dears: — 

I don’t know how I ever live away from you 
and the farm (I love every bit of it and every 
stick and stone on it) and the old kitchen and 
my own little room and — oh, most of all — you 
dearests ! Sometimes I cry little weeps on my 
pillow at night. Then I have to say Latin sub- 
junctives and imperatives before I can go to 
sleep. I wish that those old Romans had never 
said “ut,” but I know them all right, Mark; 
yes, I do. Catch me if you can. 

’Melia is a dear big sister, and the twinny 
boys blessed torments who have no respect for 
lessons. Brother Charles, is very good to me 
too, but . . . that is a homesick blot. I cried 
ink. 


AWAY FROM HOME 


31 


The school is different, very different, from 
our district school. Miss Grey makes us feel 
as if we must study because we want to know, 
not because we have to please her or would get 
bad marks. We sit up nights parsing “ Para- 
dise Lost,” and try to trip each other up the 
next day. Only one hoy and I study Latin. His 
name is John Allen and his father is the min- 
ister here. He studied with his father as I did 
with you, and we are trying to get ahead of 
each other. We had a terrible time over the 
fourteenth chapter of the first hook of Caesar 
this week. He did better than I (I’m sure his 
father helped him), but he shall not do it often. 
I’m only a female girl, but I’ll make Mr. John 
work until he gets sick if I can. 

Miss Grey gives us half-hour talks every Fri- 
day morning on serious subjects. Often she 
tells us what Miss Lyon said at Mt. Holyoke. 
Sometimes she comments on things she has no- 
ticed during the week, but mentions no names. 
Then again she will give us a talk on the 4 ‘ Pur- 
pose of School Hays” or something like that, 
till we feel very solemn. At least some of us 
do. I am trying to be good. I love to study 
for its own sake, and I want to please you more 
than anything, but there is such a funny side 
to everything, and I can’t (truly I can’t, 
mother) help seeing it, so that I often get re- 


32 


DORIS 


proved for laughing in the wrong places, and 
. . .I’m afraid that I help the other girls to 
laugh in the wrong places too. 

This morning, when I was looking solemn and 
every one around me was laughing (I knew why 
well enough), dear Miss Grey sat down beside 
me and, turning the leaves of my New Testa- 
ment, pointed to this verse: “He that is faith- 
ful in the least is faithful also in much,” and 
never said a word. Oh, how ashamed I was! 
The tears ran down my cheeks. I am dread- 
fully ashamed and sorry, dear mother, and I 
want to confess just as if I could lay my head 
on your lap and feel your hand on my hair. 1 
deserved it every bit, naughty me! Can you 
forgive me? 

Just before school closes in the afternoon 
Miss Grey says, “You may all rise. ,, 

Then she gives us different tests, and we 
never know what to expect. Last night it was: 

“If you have not whispered without permis- 
sion since you came in this morning, you may 
take your seat.” 

The night before it was : 

‘ 1 If you have not borrowed anything of your 
neighbor to-day, you may take your seat.” 

It is dreadfully awkward to be left standing, 
and it doesn’t seem quite fair to me, for it 
might be a temptation not to tell the truth, but 


'AWAY FROM HOME 


33 


Amelia says that she is trying to teach us good 
habits. The very worst one is: “If you have 
committed no misdemeanor during the day.” 
A card hangs by Miss Grey’s desk with a list 
of “misdemeanors” on it. I call it the assist- 
ant teacher, “Miss Demeanor.” 

I am afraid I have made Miss Grey some 
trouble. I went to her after school to-day and 
asked her to forgive me, and she was so kind. 
She said : “You are not wilfully naughty, Doris, 
but only thoughtlessly so. So far as your les- 
sons are concerned you are only a pleasure to 
me. You will try to be more careful, I am 
sure.” 

Won’t I just try! You will see! I shall cry 
more — ink — if — I — don’t — stop, so good-by, 
Your own little Doris. 

P.S. — Give my love to Keren and tell her that 
she is always my best friend and very clever. 
I wonder if her butter is better than mine. 

The long warm summer passed slowly away, 
and after the flush of her fruitful days Sep- 
tember and October flung their gorgeous 
pageant of autumn’s glory on the hills and val- 
leys of New England, scarlet and amber, russet 
and gold — a vision, once seen, never to be for- 
gotten; a vision for which the hearts of her 


34 


DORIS 


children yearn, however far their pilgrim feet 
have wandered, however dim their eyes have 
grown. 

And now the day of days in the calendar 
of the year was drawing near. November 
brought the Thanksgiving Day of the early 
forties of the nineteenth century, when Home 
drew her wanderers from far and near to her 
large embrace. 

A ride of fifty miles on the preceding day, 
from dawn to early candlelight, had brought 
Amelia and her family, with an eager Doris, 
home again. Great had been the preparations 
and hearty was the welcome, as wraps were laid 
aside in the 4 4 best room,” aglow with warmth 
and light. 

4 4 Oh, how good it is! This is the very best 
place in the; world, and you are the dearest 
mother! Keren, there isn’t any girl in Well- 
boro that is half as nice as yon! Mother, I 
must go out and see Mark at the barn.” 

Doris caught a heavy shawl, threw it over 
her head and ran swiftly down the familiar 
path. 

4 4 That how - do - you - do wasn ’t half big 
enough,” she cried, 4 4 and I just couldn’t wait for 
you to come in. Every day it seems as if I 
could never stand it to live so far away from 
my big brother.” 


AWAY FROM HOME 35 

She clung to his arm as he held a fork full of 
hay, poised for the manger. 

“I n a minute, little sister.’ ’ He threw a 
strong arm around her. 

“I suppose I ought to go back and I do love 
school, Miss Grey and all my studies, but home 
is so dear to-night, how can I ever leave it 
again V 9 

“When does the term end, Doris V 9 

“In June, and Miss Grey is not coming hack. 
Then I am sure that you and mother and Doris 
will say I would better come home to stay, 
don’t you think so?” she asked wistfully. 

“Yes, indeed, Crinkles; nobody can fill your 
place. It is like a big round empty hole when 
you are gone, but I really think you would best 
finish the year.” 

“Keren, doesn’t she help to fill my place?” 

“No, she makes a pleasant place of her own, 
and is very helpful to mother. She is clever 
too, but no one is like my little sister. Hark, 
mother is calling.” 

“Children, children, are you coming?” 

“Coming, mother. Catch me if you can, 
Mark.” 

Thanksgiving morning broke over a gleaming 
world. At ten o’clock a roomy sleigh drew up 
before the farmhouse door. Mrs. Banner and 
Doris were snugly tucked under buffalo robes 


36 


BORIS 


on the back seat, while Mark held the reins with 
brother Charles beside him in front. Many 
other sleighs, with jingling bells, carried like 
burdens along the country roads, on their way 
to the white church in the village of Bellfield, 
with its tall spire, neat interior and high pulpit. 
In those New England homesteads the tradi- 
tional turkey for the table would have been for- 
forgotten far sooner than the church service, to 
which each family sent its large representation. 

The proclamation by the Governor of Con- 
necticut was read with dignified emphasis, call- 
ing on all citizens to forsake their daily avoca- 
tions, and, being assembled in their respective 
places of worship, to give thanks to God for the 
blessings of the year. An earnest sermon fol- 
lowed, to which all gave at least outward rev- 
erent attention. Mr. Mather’s scholarly dis- 
course was worthy of the occasion. Doris, 
listening with demure eyes and folded hands, 
flashed a question to her brother, at the close 
of a long, well-rounded period : 

‘ ‘ Does he think a female can understand 
that?” 

A general greeting of old acquaintances, re- 
turned for the yearly festival, of neighbors and 
friends, followed the benediction. 

“Ah, Mrs. Banner; glad to see ye, Doris; 
how d’ye do? Come hum to stay, I s’pose, and 


AWAY FROM ROME 


37 


help mother; that’s the place for gals. Got 
plenty of learnin’ now, I hope; gals don’t need 
much, ’ ’ said rotund Deacon Brown, his red face 
set in a round frame of white hair and whiskers. 

“I am going back to finish my term, sir.” 

‘ ‘ Tut, tut, better stay to hum. Mark now, he ’s 
the one to have the schoolin’.” 

Doris’s cheeks flooded with tell-tale color, but 
she answered courteously: 

“He is far more worthy than I, and he is 
going to college some day.” 

“Well, well, we shall see, we shall see,” and 
the deacon’s ponderous frame passed down the 
aisle. 

Doris was soon the centre of a gay group, 
whose exuberant greeting was held in check 
only by the regard in which all held the church 
in those days of reverence for sacred associa- 
tions. 

“How do you do, James? Yes, I am glad 
to be at home, Mary. Yes, Martha, I am going 
back. No, Jane, home is the best place in the 
world. Yes, I love the school; we have to work 
hard, but Miss Grey makes study delightful.” 

“When are you coming back?” shouted a 
chorus of voices as the Banner sleigh stopped 
at the horse block. 

“In June; good-by.” 

A wonderful array of good things, known 


38 


DORIS 


only to New England larders, was spread as the 
family gathered around the long table, to cele- 
brate the greatest day in the year. It was a 
day of joyous reunion and one, alas! of long- 
ing memories. Only to Amelia and her mother 
came a vision of the father’s face, vanished 
long since, yet held in tender remembrance. 

A great turkey, browned to a turn, waited for 
the carver. Chicken pies sent out savory odors, 
while pumpkin and mince pies, ’lection cake 
and Indian pudding awaited their turn to add 
to the cheer. Knives and forks clicked merrily, 
and the twins, with mouths full of good things, 
found it easier than usual to obey the oft- 
repeated injunction of that day, ‘ 4 Children 
should be seen and not heard. ’ ’ 

At last night fell and wrapped them all in a 
cloak of darkness. The mingled aroma of 
savory meats and spices from the Far East 
lingered in the air, a fragrance ever after, even 
in memory, poignantly suggestive of hearth- 
fire, love and home. 


CHAPTER IV 
A PRECIOUS YEAR 

June 1 , 1844 . Wellboro, Mass. 

D EAREST Mother and Brother : — 

This is the last letter I shall write before 
I come home to stay. Joy, joy! We are very 
busy with reviews and examinations. I have 
done well in Latin, I think; but I am not so 
sure of my Algebra. I am the same laughing 
little girl, your own Doris, and yet I cannot ex- 
plain how, I am not the same, but Wordsworth 
says just what I mean, on his first return home 
from college: 


“The things which were the same and yet 
appeared 
Far otherwise.’ * 


Miss Grey gives us such beautiful talks, and 
she often tells us of her school life at Mt. 
Holyoke Seminary and of Miss Mary Lyon. 
She asked all of us, who thought of being teach- 
ers, to meet her in her own room on Sunday 
afternoon. Mother, I went, for I have decided 
to teach, if you are willing. I know I am not 
ready yet, and I want to be at home now more 
39 


40 


DORIS 


than anything, but some time when I am older 
and know enough, I should like to teach. 

I wish I could describe that little meeting, 
but I can’t. You can’t tell exactly how you 
feel when your heart swells up in .your throat, 
and you can’t keep the tears back to save your 
life ; and you are not all sorry, but you want to 
be good more than anything else in the world. 
Miss Grey read to us from her Mt. Holyoke 
note-book, and had us copy this passage from 
Miss Lyon’s lecture : 

“Such is the value of immortal beings, that 
all who have the care of youth ought to make 
every sacrifice for their good, and if need be 
perhaps lay down their lives. With this motive 
in view, the teachers in this school endeavor to 
make it the best possible in their power.” 

“Teachers may be strict without harshness, 
and having decided on what is best, they should 
seek to carry it out in the most kind and ac- 
ceptable manner.” 

She said that these words of Miss Lyon had 
made teaching a sacred calling to her, and that 
she hoped that we would never dare to teach 
with any lower ideals. We understood, as she 
talked to us, why she was different from any 
school teacher we have known. 

After Mark is through college, maybe I can 
go to Mt. Holyoke, see and hear Miss Lyon too, 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


41 


and learn to be a teacher. I am going to study 
hard at home next year, and get ready as fast 
as I can. Next week I am coming home — home. 

Your own little Doris. 

Doris returned to her home, her room, with 
its window of PEACE, and to her beloved Juna. 
We find this entry for 

August 5, 1844 . The dear delight of being 
home again can never be put on paper, even for 
you, my Juna, who share my innermost 
thoughts. Keren has gone back to Mrs. Jones 
to get ready to teach. She has a school which 
is to open in September. I believe that Mr. and 
Mrs. Jones really love her, but they are so 
crusted over with a reserve that will not let 
them show it that poor Keren is starved. She 
always feels that they are kind at heart. They 
show that in many ways. I don’t see why peo- 
ple can’t say nice things if they feel them, the 
world would be so much more comfortable. 

Well, our family do not believe in putting 
off showing their love until some one is dead. 
We do it right along, and life becomes rich to 
us all just for that reason. I have seen some- 
thing of the world, Juna, and have found that 
out. 

I am back in my own place, washing dishes 
again. I can’t help singing as I do it. I am so 


42 


DORIS 


glad to be sewing, cooking, making butter and 
cheese. Mother will never let me learn to spin 
or weave. She says that will go out with her 
generation, as a home industry, and I must not 
begin. 

Mark is busy on the farm these hot days. I 
sometimes wish that I were a boy so that I 
could share his burdens, but when I tell him 
that he only laughs and says that a blue-eyed 
Crinkles is better than any boy. 

Sometimes mother, Keren and I go to the 
woods with our sewing and knitting, carrying 
our supper in a basket, and Mark comes to eat 
with us. The walk home in the twilight is so 
sweet. The katydids keep up their endless dis - 
pute, and all the woodsy sounds of fluttering 
leaves and sleepy birds fill the summer air with 
harmony. That is something I have learned 
this year. There is a morning song, a noon 
song, a night song, of living, growing things; 
of flying, singing things, and it all makes one 
harmony. 

October 10. A long letter came to-day from 
Keren. She is teaching a district school, and 
has all sorts of funny experiences. She gets 
two dollars a week, and boards around, a week 
apiece for each pupil. She is up in the hills, 
and it is getting cold there already, and as a 
warm bedroom is almost unheard of, she ex- 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


43 


pects to freeze to the bedclothes and skate on 
her water pitcher. She says that she is sure 
of one place to warm her hands in — her fiery 
hair. Keren will never get on good terms with 
her pretty hair. She has a keen sense of humor, 
for all her quiet ways, and that will help her 
through the hard places. Listen to this, Juna : 

A big boy was reading in his New Testament 
the other day, “ Strain at a gnat and swallow 
a camel, ’ ’ and he read slowly, with great labor, 
4 ‘Strain at a g-a-t-e and swallow a s-a-w- 
m-i-1-1. ’ 9 

She has bright scholars, and I am sure she is 
a good teacher. Mother and Mark say that she 
is very clever. She read three books of Caesar 
while she was here, besides her reviews, and did 
most of the housework. She is still studying 
by herself. 

January 1 , 1845. Dear Juna, I write again 
on my birthday in my own room. I have just 
turned back to the first page of my journal, 
written three years ago. How young, how very 
young it sounds ! Yet I called myself grown-up 
at fifteen, and I was such a child! I said to 
mother this morning, as she gave me her birth- 
day kiss: 

“The cares of life are settling on me,” and 
I laughed and hugged her hard. She answered : 

“Never let the cares of life settle on you, my 


44 


DORIS 


daughter ; bear them valiantly as they come, but 
keep your heart sunny and sweet.’ ’ She hesi- 
tated a moment, as if she would say something 
more, gave me another kiss and went away. 

Mark and I are troubled about mother; she 
does not seem as strong as usual. She has al- 
ways been so well that I fear I have taken her 
busy unselfish life too much for granted, though 
I have tried to help all I could. Sometimes 
she sits down suddenly, panting for breath, and 
when I hurry to her she says: “It is nothing, 
child ; it will soon be over. Eun along to your 
work. ’ ’ I run along, with an anxious feeling in 
my heart that hurts. Then she comes smiling: 
“All right now, daughter; soon over.” But I 
mean to be very watchful and relieve her of 
every possible care. That is to be my special 
work this year. There was never such another 
mother. 

Jan. 20. I am trying to spend at least two 
hours a day on my Virgil. Mark hears my les- 
son as soon as the supper dishes are done. I 
begged him to let me help him do the milking, 
so that he could get more time to study, but he 
would not for a long time. At last he consented, 
and now we both look forward to that half-hour, 
morning and evening. I love the old barn, 
sweet with hay and milky smells. I have named 
the cow I like best after you, Juna, and she 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


45 


has such soft brown eyes, and a white star in 
her brown face, that you must love her as I do. 
Mark milks Cowslip and Buttercup (I think 
those are very suitable names for cows) while 
I am milking Juna, but I never come out ahead, 
try as hard as ever I can. 

February 15. A paper fell out of my gram- 
mar to-day that I had never seen before. I 
opened it, and what do you suppose I found, 
Juna? The writing was John Alleys I knew 
well enough before I saw his name : 

“Te semper amabo, 

Tu es pulcherrima. 

De te diem totam cogito, 

Noctem totam cogito (de te). 

Vale, Doris mea, 

John.” 

Strange that I had never seen it before, but it 
was very small. I laughed until I cried, the 
silly boy. It is too foolish to show to mother, 
but — I suppose I must be silly too — I put it 
away in my treasure box. 

March 1. How the days and weeks are slip- 
ping away, Juna. I forgot to put down in my 
last writing a very important thing. I was sit- 
ting beside Mark one evening while he studied 
his Greek, and picked up his grammar. It 


46 DORIS 

looked queer enough with such spider tracks for 
letters. 

4 4 What are you reading, Mark?” I said. 

4 4 Homer, sis — the Iliad, the Greek side of the 
siege of Troy. You are reading the Trojan side 
as Habeas tells it to Dido.” 

“I want to learn it too; is it very hard? Do 
you think a female can learn it?” 

4 4 It is not easy, hut I know this female can, 
if she can find the time; how will you manage 
that?” 

4 4 Mother insists that I do not undertake to 
sew now. She finds it easier to do that and less 
housework, and she says she must keep busy or 
she will never get well, though I keep her from 
it all I can. I am sure that I can squeeze the 
day and get a half-hour, and I can pin a paper 
up in front of me when I wash dishes. It 
does not take all my powers of body and mind 
to handle a dishcloth. But how about your 
time? You ought not to spend another minute 
on me.” 

44 1 think we can arrange it, Doris. Jonah, 
Mr. Jones’s hired man, is coming over to work 
for three hours every day, so it all comes 
around right. It is so good to have you at 
home, Crinkles.” 

I have written every word of this conversa- 
tion, it is so important. 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


47 


What would Mr. Mather say if he knew ! 

May 1. Mother is growing stronger, and we 
are so happy. Our doctor called yesterday and 
found her much improved. He is an old man 
with hair as white as snow, and I have known 
him all my life. He patted my hair when he 
went away and said : 

“The care of her children has done more for 
her than all my medicine. Go on, my child, and 
she will get well.” 

The day has been warm and sunny. After 
dinner mother said: 

‘ ‘ Daughter, how would you like to go over to 
the wood lot and look for some Mayflowers'? 
They must surely he out.” 

So mother and I went slowly across the south 
pasture, through the bars into the woods. The 
hemlocks are showing tiny yellow tips, a prom- 
ise of their new growth, buds are swelling on 
maple and oak, and all the air is full of a sort 
of thrill of growing that makes me glad to be 
alive. I put my ear down to the ground, and 
it seemed as though I could hear everything 
stirring and stretching up toward the light. 
We found great clumps of pink and white May- 
flower — “Sweet as the breath of Heaven,” 
mother said as she buried her face in the wild 
fragrance she was carrying home. 

May 15. Mark and I had a long talk to-day 


48 


DORIS 


after the dinner dishes were washed. We all 
went to church this morning (I don’t dislike 
Mr. Mather as much as I did), and while mother 
rested we went out to the barn, climbed up on 
the haymow and sat before the upper door that 
opens toward the south. The warm spring sun- 
shine shone in and we looked out on the green- 
ness and loveliness of the Connecticut valley. 

“Is there anything more beautiful in all this 
world, Mark?” I said. 

“I don’t know, Doris,” he answered; “I have 
seen very little of the world, but I am sure it 
must be good on the outside at least. I am a 
man now and I want to do my part in it.” 

‘ ‘ Are you going to be a minister, Mark ? ” I 
said. “Have you had a call?” 

“No, Doris,” he answered slowly, as if 
measuring his words; “I believe that every one 
has a call to some special work, whether it is 
preaching, making shoes, farming, teaching or 
anything else. Somehow I never can see far 
into my future.” 

“You will do something great, I know,” I 
said (for I think Mark is very clever). “I wish 
you could go to college now. But tell me what 
you want to do.” 

“I have been all my life so eager to know, 
with a great hunger to learn, till it has seemed 
like fire shut up in my bones. Now I want to 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


49 


give and give as well as learn,” he said. “It 
has been a great pleasure to teach Keren and 
you. I want to be a teacher, well trained, to 
help on others who long as I always have to 
know.” 

I threw a big armful of hay on him to keep 
the tremble out of my voice, and said before he 
could look at me : 

“What a pity you have to stay on the farm 
and work so hard. I wish I could help and set 
you free at once.” 

He threw off the hay and turned his great 
gray eyes to meet mine, smiled his grave, sweet 
smile — so different from his teasing laugh — 
clasped his strong brown hands over his knee, 
and said: 

“Doris, I am ashamed to say that there have 
been times when I have felt it hard, but only 
for a little while. No opportunity in life could 
be greater than to take care of mother — she is 
a wonderful mother — and you. I should be a 
coward and a knave if I were not glad to do it, 
and far more if I were able.” 

“But you are almost ready for college, aren’t 
you?” I asked. 

“Yes, quite ready, Mr. Mather says, and a 
little more. I shall go on studying with him. 
He will not let me thank him ; he says he does 
it all for the sake of his only son, who died when 


50 DORIS 

he was a little child. You don’t hate him as you 
did, Doris?” 

“No, I never really hated him,” I said, feel- 
ing some sorry because Mark cared. “How 
could I when he was so good to you? But he 
made me angry when he talked about females, 
as if we were not worth teaching. Do you think 
I get angry as I used to ? ” 

“No, indeed; I haven’t called you Pepper Pot 
for a long time, have I?” He pulled a curl that 
always hangs over my ear. “You are getting 
really salubrious in your atmosphere, even 
when an east wind blows, inside or out. Then 
I must say, Miss Banner, that you are doing 
finely in Latin, and no teacher could ask for 
better work than you are doing in Greek. 
Really, Doris, I am surprised.” 

How big and proud I felt, Juna! We talked 
and talked. Mark is like a friend as well as 
brother. He is my Great Heart, like him who 
cared for Christiana, Mercy and the children 
in Pilgrim’s Progress. I am sure my brother 
will be a great man some day. I must be good 
for his sake and mother’s and work as much as 
I can. 

Oct. 15. This has been a glorious day, when 
all fulness and ripeness are in the golden air. 
I wonder whether anywhere else in all the world 
there is such a wonderful pageant of color as 


A PRECIOUS YEAR 


51 


autumn brings to us. As I grow older I feel a 
deeper meaning in the blue of the sky, the ever- 
changing panorama of color and light in the 
valley and on the hillsides. I see in them God, 
the great Artist of the universe. 

Somehow to-day I have a feeling of unusual 
seriousness, in which there is much gratitude. 
Mother is wonderfully better. The doctor says 
that she has passed the crisis and will be en- 
tirely well again, but that she must still be 
taken care of. It has been hard for Amelia to 
be so far away this year, but she, Mark and I 
are very happy that we are not going to lose 
her. 

I have been looking over my note-book, kept 
at school last year. Miss Grey had us copy 
extracts of Miss Lyon’s talks as she gave them 
to us. Here are two of them : 

“ Those obtain the greatest happiness who 
seek it indirectly by promoting that of others. 
‘Let love through all your actions run,’ in every 
deed, look, word and thought.” 

“How much happier you would be to live in 
a thousand lives besides yourself, rather than 
to live in yourself alone. This throwing out 
the whole soul in powerful, vigorous, disinter- 
ested action for others, no matter how self- 
denying, will make you receive a hundred- 
fold in return. First you must give yourself 


52 


DORIS 


to Christ, and then go about like Him. He was 
never striving for a place in which to live.” 

“Religion is fitted to make us better in every 
situation in life. ’ ’ 

Miss Grey told us of a girl who asked to be 
excused from calisthenics so that she might 
have more time to read her Bible, and Miss 
Lyon told her that it was just as much her duty 
to learn her lessons and take exercise as it 
was to read her Bible and pray. I think it hap- 
pened to Miss Grey herself, but she did not say 
so. 

I showed these extracts to mother, and she 
said (I could tell no one but you, Juna) : 

‘ 1 My little Doris is proving these things true 
by her own sweet unselfishness. ,, 

I dropped my head on her dear shoulder and 
cried a happy little cry. After all, maybe I, 
quick-tempered, mischievous Doris, am improv- 
ing a little. At least mother thinks so, and I am 
as happy as I can be. 

Then mother and I had a long talk. Mark 
must come first, of course ; but she hopes that I 
may go to Mt. Holyoke some day. Oh, Juna, 
think of it ! 


CHAPTER V 
OPEN DOORS 

M EANWHILE in the little house among 
the Connecticut hills, which was 4 ‘home, 
sweet home” to Doris, life was taking on new 
aspects for her brother and her friend. 

Mark and his mother were walking slowly 
through the apple orchard, on an April day, 
looking with practised eyes at the swelling 
buds, and calculating the chances for a good 
“apple year.” 

“My son, how old are you?” asked Mrs. Ban- 
ner seriously. 

“Surely, mother, you ought to know. I shall 
be twenty- two the last day of May.” 

“We know things that we ask sometimes. At 
least mothers do.” 

“The trees promise well, mother; but what 
were you thinking?” 

“Deacon Brown came over to-day after you 
went to Mr. Mather’s, and he says a man who 
owns a sawmill wants to buy his woodland at 
the foot of the mountain, if he can get our wood- 
lot adjoining. Deacon Brown is anxious to sell, 
and hopes that we will consider it. The man of- 
fers one thousand dollars cash for ours.” 

53 


54 


DORIS 


“No, indeed, mother, we will not sell one foot 
of this old farm to please Deacon Brown or a 
deacon of any color. I love every foot of it,” 
said Mark indignantly, and his face flushed as 
Doris’s might have done. 

“Softly, dear; I was not thinking of him, but 
of you.” 

“You are always thinking of me, mother.” 

He turned to answer her smile with his own, 
grave and sweet, the flush dying from his fore- 
head. She slipped her hand through his arm, 
and as they walked up and down under the bare 
branches, his fair young head bent to meet her 
loving eyes, deep and blue, shaded by silvering 
hair, under the snowy frill of her cap, the April 
sun fell shimmering around them, while now in 
wordless speech, now in earnest conversation, 
they communed with each other or planned for 
the future. 

“It isn’t fair, mother, for me to take the 
money; the girls are to be considered.” 

“My dear son, you have borne the burdens of 
a man for a long time. Listen to my plan. 
Take half the money as absolutely yours, and 
when a final settlement must be made, deduct 
the other five hundred from your share. Amelia 
and Doris will be quite willing, and we are all 
anxious to have you enter college next fall. 
Mr. Mather told me the other day that you were 


OPEN DOORS 


55 


nearly ready for the Junior year, but that he 
would advise you to enter Sophomore and take 
extra studies. It will give you a broader 
course, and you ought to have three full years 
in college. With economy I feel sure that you 
will be able to meet the expensed ’ 

4 4 But the farm, mother, and you and Doris; 
you seem to forget the work that must be done 
to keep things going. ’ 9 

“No, I do not forget. A letter came from 
Amelia to-day which seems like a special Provi- 
dence. Of course she is anxious for you too, 
and as a change is coming in her husband’s 
family, she and Charles are about deciding to 
make a change also.” 

“Nothing disastrous, I hope.” 

“Oh, no; his youngest brother is to be mar- 
ried shortly, and would like to stay near home. 
The farm, you know, belongs to the father, and 
Amelia writes that they are willing to come here 
and relieve you completely.” 

“When can they come, mother?” 

“After the summer harvests are gathered. 
You can go on with the spring work as usual, 
and leave everything in good shape. No one 
can take your place, Mark; but I want you to 
go. Oh, what a son you have been !” 

Her voice trembled and the tears came to her 
eyes. Her son drew a strong arm about her. 


56 


DORIS 


“Mother, he whispered with deep emotion, 
“you are too good to me, you are all too good; 
I am not worthy.” 

He hushed the protest on her lips with a rev- 
erent kiss; and they went silently home to- 
gether. 

Doris came flying down the path to meet 
them. 

“Will he do it, mother? Say, sir, will you 
do it ? ’ ’ She seized him by the arms and tried 
to shake him. “I don’t know how we can ever 
live on the farm without you, but I want you to 
go, I want you to go. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Miss Whirlwind, I am going.” 

She made a profound curtsey. 

“Bachelor of Arts, Master of Arts — Mark 
West Banner — I am proud to make your ac- 
quaintance,” and the three went merrily on. 

“Sis,” said Mark, “I want you to finish six 
books of Virgil before I go, get those four books 
of the Anabasis over, and have a taste of 
Homer. Think you can do it?” 

“I am only waiting for a chance to distin- 
guish myself, sir,” Doris answered demurely, 
then wheeling suddenly about : ‘ ‘ Mark, let me 
do this. I’m just crazy to read Homer. Let me 
begin right away and do all I can before you 
go. Then I’ll finish the Anabasis by myself and 


OPEN DOORS 57 

send yon written translations, and if I get stuck 
fast you can pull me out. May IV 1 

Her blue eyes were wistful and she uncon- 
sciously clasped her hands. 

“To be sure you may ; that is a fine plan. ’ ’ 

“Where is he, 0 where is Homer? I’ll run 
and get him this minute. You will see.” 

She flew up the path while mother and 
brother watched her with loving eyes. 

“She is a dear little girl,” said Mark, “and 
amazingly clever, too, for a female,” he added. 
“How Mr. Mather used to 4 rile’ her.” 

“She is a precious child,” said Mrs. Banner, 
“and a treasure to us all.” They went in to 
find Doris wholly absorbed. 

4 4 See, Mark, if I have this first line right. ’ ’ 

Mrjviv aside, Oea , Ilr/XrjicxdsGo AxiXf/oZ. 

4 4 4 The wrath sing, 0 Goddess, of Achilles, son 
of Peleus.’ 

4 4 No this is better: 

4 4 4 Sing, 0 Goddess, the wrath of Achilles, 
son of Peleus.’ ” 

4 4 That is a good beginning. Want to help 
me milk?” 

4 4 Greek and the milking stool are not antago- 
nistic,” remarked Doris sagely, as she settled to 
her task and filled the foaming pail. 

Summer brought again its fulness of life to 


58 


BORIS 


farm and home, and the busy days and weeks 
sped swiftly to the harvest time. 

Kind Mrs. Jones invited Keren, returned 
from a year of successful teaching, to spend the 
summer in her old home, where, as a helpful 
guest, she bore little resemblance to the orphan 
child, 4 ‘bound out” long to those who, although 
not of her kin, were in these later years prov- 
ing themselves friends. Doris and she con- 
trived to see each other nearly every day, and 
many and often were the times 

“They tired the sun with talking 
And sent him down the sky. ’ ’ 

“We will never, never stop loving each other 
so long as we live, and longer too,” declared 
Doris emphatically. True little prophet, they 
never did. 

June brought a pang to the mother’s heart. 
Doris came to her in a June twilight, with a 
flushed and eager face : 

“What do you think, mother? This is the 
strangest world I ever saw.” 

“Is it?” 

“Don’t laugh at me, mother; but John Allen 
is here.” 

“Well, who is John Allen and how did he 
get here ? Is he dangerous, do you think ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, mother, don’t you remember the boy 


OPEN DOORS 59 

who studied Latin with me at Miss Grey’s 
school?” 

“And you tried to ruin his health by making 
him study so hard to keep up with you? Yes, 
I remember.” 

“Well, will you believe it? His mother is Mrs. 
Jones’s own sister, and they have come to pay 
her a visit. Mrs. Jones has been to see her, 
but she has not been here for fifteen years. 
John wants to know if he may come over to see 
me. Are you willing?” 

“I suppose he may. Be sure that Mark 
meets him when he comes, and bring him 
straight to your mother, and let her have a look 
at him. There can be no harm in seeing your 
old schoolmate, surely.” 

Doris slipped away to find her brother, and 
the mother turned her face to the purple west, 
with a catch in her breath as from sudden sharp 
pain. 

“I am afraid,” she murmured to herself, 
‘ ‘ that my baby is growing up. ’ ’ 

“Doris,” said Mark, a few weeks later, “do 
you care anything for that callow youth?” 

“Mercy, Mark, you look positively fierce. If 
you don’t change your countenance this minute 
I shall have to run away and cry. What has 
poor John done?” 

“Done? Nothing that I can discover, nor 


60 DORIS 

ever will. I should like to shake him until he 
rattled.’ ’ 

“Yes, he has done something too. He is 
ready for college and is going to enter next fall, 
but not at A ,” cried Doris indignantly. 

“Thank fortune; I don’t believe I could keep 
my hands off him, especially if he goes to hang- 
ing around you.” 

“Do you think he is had, Mark?” asked Doris, 
nearly ready to cry. 

“ No, he is not had ; neither is he good. There 
is not enough to him to he good, though such 
people sometimes have enough to them to be 
bad. Be careful, dear little sister,” said Mark 
gently; “he is not worth caring much for.” 

Doris turned away with hot cheeks. In her 
pocket was a note, bidding her good-by and 
signed, 

4 4 Semper tides, 

John.” 

She put the note in her treasure-box when 
she went to bed. But John had asked nothing 
beyond an occasional letter, and there was 
nothing else to tell either mother or Mark. 

One evening, early in July, Keren stood sud- 
denly in the doorway as the Banner family were 
sitting in the twilight. She had far outgrown 
the promise of her childhood, and looked 


OPEN DOORS 


61 


worthy to be a daughter of Job, but she did not 
know it. She had still a yearning wish to be 
‘ 4 fair to look upon.” She could never realize 
the glory of her Titian hair, and the eloquence 
of her dark-brown eyes, and as her mirror con- 
fided to her none of the changing charm of her 
expressive mobile features, she had decided to 
be “ philosophic,” and accept what was to her 
a plainness of face as patiently as possible. 

“Dear Mrs. Banner, may I come in? I have 
something wonderful to tell you, and I cannot 
wait until to-morrow. Besides, I want your 
advice. ’ ’ 

“Certainly, dear child; you are always wel- 
come.” 

‘ ‘ What is it ? ” cried Doris. ‘ ‘ Tell us quickly. 
I can’t imagine what it can be. Are you going 
to get married, and have never said a word to 
me about it?” 

“If I ever get married, Doris, you shall know 
my expectations as soon as I do. I promise 
you that ‘true blue.’ You all know how I came 
by my unusual name, and the promise given of 
a thousand dollars when I should be twenty- 
one, to compensate me for the infliction and 
affliction.” 

“Keren is a pretty name, isn’t it, Mark?” in- 
terrupted Doris. 

“I think so,” said Mark slowly, with an un- 


62 


DORIS 


expected flush. Why, he wondered, had the 
name grown so dear to him and he unconscious 
of its spell. 

4 ‘Well, to-day,’ ’ Keren went on, “Mr. Jones 
brought me a fat letter when he came from the 
post-office, and it was from a lawyer, who has 
held it in trust all these years. The money was 
put at interest when my mother’s uncle died, 
and it now amounts to fifteen hundred dollars. 
I have long had a dream, and I think now it may 
come true.” 

“Didn’t you believe you would ever get it, 
Keren?” asked Doris. 

“It seertled a far-away, impossible thing. I 
have never heard a word from the lawyer be- 
fore, hut it seems he has kept track of me, and 
as I am of age, he writes that it is at my dis- 
posal. 

“Now for my dream — I want to go to 
Mt. Holyoke next October, and take the full 
course until I am graduated. Is that the best 
thing to do, Mrs. Banner?” 

“Most assuredly, my child. What do Mr. 
and Mrs. Jones say about it — for, of course, 
you have told them?” 

“Mrs. Jones is a little doubtful, but hopes 
that it is all right. She cannot exactly under- 
stand why a female should want to know more 
than I do now, but she is always kind, and says 


OPEN DOORS 63 

that I must feel that I have a home with them 
whenever I need a home or care to come.” 

4 ‘And Mr. Jones V ’ 

Keren laughed merrily. 

“Sartin’,” he says; “sartin’, Keren must al- 
ways feel that this is her hum; always to hum 
here; but when gals take so to lamin’, I think 
it is agin natur’. Now, ’pears ter me I’d put 
this ere money out, or buy a snug little farm 
and rent it, and teach school ; or, better yit, git 
married and live on’t. I must say Keren can 
make as good butter as ever I eat.’ ” 

“They are your true friends, Keren.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Banner; and I love them sin- 
cerely. Now I have a request to make of you 
all, and I beg that you will not refuse me. Let 
me have Doris for my mate-sister, and let me 
bear the expense. You can never know what 
you have done for me, and it will be a very poor 
return. 0 please do not say no.” 

They were all silent, until Mrs. Banner said 
quietly : 

“We do appreciate your loving thought, dear 
child ; but we cannot permit that. We hope that 
Doris may go later, next year perhaps ; but for 
the present she will stay at home.” 

She spoke with a gentle firmness that, they 
all knew, made further argument useless. Pres- 
ently Mark broke the awkward silence. 


64 


DORIS 


“I have a plan which I think you will all ap- 
prove ; it just came to me. When are the anni- 
versary exercises at Mt. Holyoke, Keren ?” 

“lam not quite sure,” Keren answered; “I 
think about the last of July.” 

“I want to go to A to make arrange- 

ments for entering college next year. What do 
you say to a carriage journey for all of us? 
You, mother, admire Miss Lyon and will enjoy 
seeing and hearing her. Keren and Doris can 
look up seminary conditions. Of course, we 
shall drive both horses, and I can put up one 
horse and the carriage at South Hadley, and 

ride the other horse to A , stay a day or 

two, and come back after you. What do you 
say?” 

“Mark, you are a wizard. There couldn’t 
possibly be anything better. Mother, do please 
say yes. My new pink, all-wool delaine will be 
just the thing to wear at the exercises. Keren, 
you must finish your white frock right away. I 
have a fresh pink ribbon for my bonnet, and, 
Keren, you must get a dark green one 
for yours ; and your handsome black silk, 
mother ” 

“Child, what a rattle-box you are! We have 
not started yet.” 

“But you will go, mother; say that you will 
go.” 


OPEN DOORS 65 

“Yes, I think that we must go. What do you 
say, Keren V 9 

“I scarcely know what to say, I am so glad. 
Yes, indeed, I shall be most happy to go.” 

“You must write at once, Keren,” said Mrs. 
Banner; “I am a little fearful that it will be 
too late to get a place now for next year.” 

“It seems strange how circumstances fit 
themselves to our needs,” said Keren thought- 
fully. “Only yesterday a young lady that I 
knew well, where I was teaching, wrote me that 
she had engaged a place at Mt. Holyoke for 
next year, but finds that she cannot go. She 
wished that I might take her place. When I 
read her letter it was an impossibility; now I 
can write at once to secure it. ’ ’ 

“God is planning for us, dear children, when 
we do not know it,” said Mrs. Banner, rising, 
and the conference ended. 


CHAPTEE VI 
OPPORTUNITY 


OEPT. 1 , 1846. A wonderful thing has hap- 
U pened, Juna; so wonderful that you will 
be surprised that I have not told you before. 
We had a journey — never-to-be-forgotten — 
mother and Mark, Keren and I, to attend the 
anniversary exercises at Mt. Holyoke Seminary. 
Mark drove two horses to the double-seated car- 
riage, and I sat in front with him, while mother 
and Keren had the back seat. We struck the 
main road at Suffield, drove to Springfield, to 
Holyoke and South Hadley, where the Semi- 
nary is situated. Mark went on to A , and 

we remained to attend the Anniversary. 

The little village lies in our own Connecticut 
valley, with blue mountains on either side — Mt. 
Tom and Mt. Holyoke — standing like ageless 
sentinels, to guard the majestic gateway, through 
which a noble river flows. It was so beautiful, 
the valley lying in the golden glow of the late 
afternoon sunshine, and the Seminary building, 
with girls coming and going on the walks, that 
I looked around at Keren. Her big brown eyes 
were full of tears, and I know that mine were 
wet. 


OPPORTUNITY 


67 


We saw Miss Lyon that very night. She re- 
membered mother, and was so sweet to me that 
I fell in love with her on the spot. She wears 
a white cap, has large bine eyes, sometimes 
merry, but often serious, a fair lovely skin and 
wavy auburn hair, with charming little curls 
that escape from under her cap. Her beautiful 
hands filled me with envy. I say I fell in love, 
but if I were a student here I don’t think I 
should like to have her displeased with me (I’m 
going to be one some day, you will see). 

She remembered about Keren right away, 
and said that she was glad there was a place 
for her next year. It sounds like a common 
thing to say, but when Miss Lyon says even 
ordinary things they seem to mean more, and 
Keren felt at home at once. Then something 
else happened that was not at all ordinary. She 
asked about Keren’s mother, and found that 
they had been little girls together, and had at- 
tended the same district school. 

“And you are the daughter of Anna Giles?” 
she said earnestly. “And your father and 
mother are both gone ? I am very glad to have 
you as one of my daughters, my dear child,” 
and she put her arms around Keren and kissed 
her. You may be sure that Keren fell in love 
with her, too. 

The next day we saw the class of 1846 gradu- 


68 


DORIS 


ate. They were dressed in white, forty-two 
girls, as lovely as flowers. They marched in a 
procession after the teachers, with Miss Lyon 
at their head, to the Congregational Church, 
where they all sat together (I’m going to be 
one some day, Juna). We heard the Reverend 
J. D. Condit make a very learned address. 
When the diplomas were given to the forty-two, 
Miss Lyon’s face fairly shone. She was beauti- 
ful. She wore a scarf of blue ribbons, and lace on 
her auburn hair, which was coiled high on her 
head, and her cheeks were pink with excitement. 
She looked at the young ladies as a mother does 
at her own daughters, with loving pride. Oh, 
Juna, I cannot tell you how wonderful Miss 
Mary Lyon is ! One must see her to know. 

Some one sitting near me said that he liked 
everything but having a woman so conspicuous 
at public exercises. He must be first cousin to 
our Mr. Mather in his ideas about “females.” 

The procession filed out of the church and 
marched back to the Seminary grounds. It was 
a beautiful sight, the girls looked so fair and 
sweet and yet so serious. They must be glad 
and sorry too that they have really finished 
their school life. We were told that many of 
them were already engaged as teachers in vari- 
ous schools for next year. The graduates of 
Mt. Holyoke are in great demand, and the teach- 


OPPORTUNITY 69 

ing of girls is already improving all around 
South Hadley. 

In the evening we went to the social gathering 
at the Seminary, and Keren and I talked with 
a number of the girls. The pupils do all the 
work of the house, and we were taken down to 
the basement to see the kitchen and dining- 
room. They say that everything is done by 
such a strict system that each girl works but 
one hour a day, and no one finds it too hard. 
This arrangement makes the expense much 
less, but no one is excused, no matter how rich 
she may be. I am sure that I shall like the fun 
of working in a “ circle’ ’ when I go, for more 
than ever I want to go, but not now. 

The girls told us that it is wonderful how 
Miss Lyon knows things, and yet never seems 
to be ‘ 4 spying” on them. One time a “pie 
circle’ * decided that it would he advisable to 
have a pie of their very own, so they saved a 
wee bit out of each one for the extra pie, and 
supposed that no one knew of their per- 
formance. One day each one of the circle re- 
ceived an invitation to Miss Lyon’s room. 
There they found her waiting for them with a 
fine pumpkin pie on the table, which she gra- 
ciously served to them. They ate with feelings 
that can be imagined better than described. 


70 DORIS 

Do you suppose, Juna, they ever did that again! 
Never, never! 

I am going to copy something I found in the 
Boston Daily Mail , of August 15, describing the 
anniversary of the “ distinguished institution 
at South Hadley, for the training of female 
minds.’ ’ 

“The stranger who looks at this institution, 
its splendid edifice, unsurpassed by any college 
building in the land, containing nearly one hun- 
dred neatly furnished rooms, with a large 
chapel, dining-hall and library, surrounded by 
extended gardens, could hardly believe that it 
had all resulted from the persevering efforts of 
one Female, enlisting the benevolent energies of 
others. Yet such is the fact, and it affords a 
striking illustration of the power of mind, stim- 
ulated by motives of philanthropy. The object 
of its originator was to furnish the means of a 
thorough education to promising daughters of 
the poor, as well as of the rich; and this object 
has been entirely realized.” 

Do you suppose, Juna, that I am a promising 
daughter of the poor! 

Oct. 30. It takes a very short time, dear 
Juna, to make great changes. We are together, 
laughing, talking, working ; we hold each 
other’s hands, and in a few days or hours, one 
is here, another there, with miles and miles be- 


OPPORTUNITY 


71 


tween. When we call there is no answer. . . . 
Oh, how do we bear such things! Mark is at 

A . Mark ! on whom he have leaned so long, 

and whom we miss everywhere ! But with all 
our loneliness we are glad to have him go. We 
made him some beautiful shirts. I stitched and 
stitched on the wristbands and bosoms, deter- 
mined that nobody should have nicer ones than 
he — two threads up and three threads left 
down. Mother said that the stitches were very 
nice and even. Nothing could be too fine for my 
Great Heart. Mother packed his trunk. It is 
new and covered with hairy skin, fastened on 
with bright brass nails. Mother put some 
gingerbread and sugar cookies in to surprise 
him. I don’t know what he will do if he can’t 
get enough gingerbread ; he eats it by the yard 
here at home. 

Keren is at Mt. Holyoke. Mrs. Jones helped 
her make her frocks, and gave her a new trunk 
like Mark’s. I miss her very much — she is my 
dearest friend — but it does not hurt like his 
going. Well, I will work hard at my home du- 
ties and my books and try to comfort mother. 

Those are the sorry things ; now for the glad 
ones. Amelia, Charles and the twins are here 
to take care of the farm and of us. It is a com- 
fort to have them, especially Amelia, for 
mother’s sake. She is her oldest child, and is 


72 


DORIS 


very dear. I need her too, since I always have 
a sense of security when she is around, for if 
anything unusual happens she knows exactly 
what to do. We are thankful, too, for Charles 
and the little hoys — but I want my brother. 

Nov. 15. My own room. I am going to make 
an announcement, Juna, and then explain; I 
am going to the district school. What, when 
I have studied Latin and Greek, to that little 
school? Yes; this is wliat has happened: This 
very minute there is a young lady downstairs 
who has come to board with us. Her name is 
Miss Sabrina Hurst. She is short and plump, 
with nice hazel eyes and black hair that is so 
smooth it shines like satin. She is a graduate 
of Mt. Holyoke and is going to teach the school 
here. There are too many scholars for one 
teacher, and not enough for two, so she has 
asked me to be a pupil teacher, and mother has 
consented. I was never good in Algebra, and 
I need a thorough review, so I am going to 
study that. I want to go over my English 
grammar again, and Miss Hurst suggests that 
I teach a class. She says it is an excellent way 
to review. Three of the oldest pupils will parse 
in Paradise Lost, and I shall join them, though 
it does not seem appreciative of Milton’s poetry 
to parse such lines as these in reference to his 
blindness : 


OPPORTUNITY 


73 


‘ 4 Thus with the year 
Seasons return; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer rose, 
Or flocks, or birds, or human face divine ; 
But cloud instead and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me.” 

How can one care what is subject and what is 
predicate in such majestic thought and rhythm? 

I am going to teach two classes of the small- 
est children. My teaching days will begin much 
sooner than I expected. Miss Hurst has read 
Caesar and Virgil as I have, and some Cicero. 
She is anxious to go on with her Latin, and we 
shall read Cicero together at home. Of course, 
there will not be much time for it, but a little is 
better than nothing. 

I felt afraid to leave mother, even with 
Amelia here, but she is so much better that she 
wants to work more than she has done. The 
doctor says that she must never weave again, as 
the loom is too heavy for her, and she has prom- 
ised us that she will not. He says that if she 
will be careful not to overwork she may do what 
she pleases. I wish they would cut the old loom 
into kindling wood; the factories ought to do 
all the weaving in these days. I announced my 


74 


DORIS 


opinion at the breakfast table this morning, and 
Charles said, in his pleasant, hearty way: 

4 4 Mother, you must not weave, and Amelia 
shall not ; will you give me the old loom?” 

4 4 Certainly, Charles, if you want it. What 
will you do with it ? ” 

4 4 That is a secret,” he answered, laughing. 

Amelia has trained Jimmy and Johnny to be 
helpful, and I am surprised to see how much 
they can do. They are dear little fellows, for 
the most part obedient, and always affectionate. 
They are real boys and, of course, dreadfully 
naughty sometimes, hut they are always dear. 
They will go to school with me. They adore 
4 4 Grandma,” as well they may, and their bright 
ways and clever sayings amuse us all. The 
other day mother sent Johnny to the loom- 
room, where she keeps her herbs, for a bag of 
thyme that hung by the window. He was gone 
a long while, and came hack with his father’s 
watch in his bag for marbles. 

4 4 Here, grandma,” he said soberly, 4 4 is a hag 
of time.” 

4 4 You rogue,” she said sternly, 4 4 what would 
your father say? Put that where you found it 
this minute.” But her eyes twinkled, and the 
little scapegrace knew it. He obeyed, of course, 
and brought the herb at once, then lifted his shy, 


OPPORTUNITY 75 

sweet eyes to her face and received a hearty 
kiss. 

If nothing happens I shall go to my work with 
an easy mind, and as brother Charles is an ex- 
cellent farmer and a strong worker, Mark need 
have no anxiety. 

Nov. 20. This is the last time I shall write in 
my own dear room for a long while, for I have 
let Miss Hurst have it. Mark has always slept 
downstairs in the bedroom next to mother’s, and 
I have taken it that she may not be alone at 
night. The old trundle-bed has been brought 
out of the attic into the large west chamber, and 
Amelia and her family sleep there. Of course, 
I want to be near mother, Juna ; but would you 
believe me capable of such meanness! I long 
to shut and lock the door of my room, and have 
it all to myself — my selfish self — whenever I 
want it. 

January 15, 1847. How swiftly the weeks of 
this busy winter are passing! School duties, 
home duties (for I cannot quite rid myself of 
anxiety about mother, and feel that I must spare 
her all I can) and as much home study as I 
can manage keep me as busy as a bee. It is well 
perhaps, since Mark is away and I miss him 
sorely. We have dear letters from him. 

“I am studying hard,” he writes, “and enjoy 
my work. It is a great privilege to sit under 


76 


DORIS 


these learned men, and every hour is precious, 
hut home is on my heart, and you are always in 
my thoughts. ’ ’ 

I am trying to be worthy of him. I send him 
what Greek translations I can, but shall barely 
finish four books of the Anabasis this year. 
Miss Hurst and I work well together. She is 
an even-tempered lady, and we are fond of each 
other in a quiet comfortable fashion. She is an 
excellent teacher, and carries Mt. Holyoke meth- 
ods into our little school as far as may be, and 
I am learning much from her. She gives weekly 
talks to the older pupils, as Miss Grey did. I 
am always present and take notes. 

4 ‘Never burn what a bird would open its bill 
to get,” Miss Hurst quoted from Miss Lyon, in 
a talk on kindness to animals. She says she 
thinks they will some time have societies to pro- 
tect birds. I will copy one more quotation here 
that I may never forget it : 

‘ ‘ The body and mind each strives to see which 
will rule. The body is like the brute, the mind 
ranges in eternity. . . . The master should 
have the place of the master. The mind should 
not sit down and wash the body’s feet, but the 
body should obey the mind.” 

I can understand, since I have seen Miss 
Lyon, how impressive her talks must be, and 
what an influence she has over her pupils, and 


OPPORTUNITY 


77 


yet Miss Hurst says that she is often as merry 
as a girl. One day at table she asked the 
* ‘ silver circle” to bring teaspoons for the des- 
sert, saying: 

4 ‘To-day our dessert is like some young la- 
dies, whom you may have known, very soft and 
very sweet, but lacking in consistency.’ ’ 

Miss Hurst says that ever afterward they 
treasured that word “consistency,” and used 
it on all occasions, wise and otherwise. 

March 1. Mother said to me this morning: 

“You are growing old too fast, my child. I 
cannot have my merry little daughter so seri- 
ous ; go out and slide down hill with Jimmy and 
Johnny.” 

So out I went in my hood, warm blanket- 
shawl and mittens. We slid, we snowballed, we 
made a snow fort, we laughed and shouted, and 
came in so hungry, after a two hours’ frolic, 
that mother was obliged to bring out a dish of 
her sugared (whitewashed, Jimmy calls them) 
doughnuts, to settle us. 

“Aunt Doris ain’t any bigger ’n us, grandma,” 
declared Johnny, with his mouth full, “an’ she 
can throw a snowball quicker ’n straighter’n 
lightnin ’. ’ ’ 

“Is she bigger than you in school?” asked 
grandma. “ Do you mind her ? ” 

“Yes, we has to mind ’er,” said Jimmy, with 


78 


DORIS 


a sigh. “If we don’t, right off quick, she looks 
at us so it shivers us, and once she shook me 
awful hard.” 

4 ‘ What did you do, Jimmy ? I thought grand- 
ma ’s little boys were good in school.” 

“Yes’in, we’re pretty good; but Johnny’s 
better ’n me. He looks awful funny when you 
tickle ’im,” said Jimmy, with a gurgling laugh; 
“an’ I tickled ’im, an’ he made a face, an’ wig- 
gled an’ wiggled, an’ I laughed so’t I hollered. 
Yes’m, right in school; an’ Aunt Doris took me 
out an’ shook an’ shook me. She looked awful 
fierce. No’m, I ain’t never goin’ to do it again. 
Please gimme another doughnut, grandma?” 

Jimmy looked up with an engaging smile, and 
mother gave him his third doughnut. 

“Grandma,” asked Johnny solemnly, “do 
you find it always easy to he good?” 

“No, indeed, darling,” she confessed heart- 
ily; “but we will all try harder than ever. An- 
other doughnut, Johnny?” 

March 30. There are many happenings that 
I cannot find time to tell you, Juna, during 
these busy days. Keren sends us dear letters, 
telling us of her school life. She has taken up 
music, and greatly enjoys her piano practice, 
for she has been music hungry all her life. She 
is going on with her Latin too. She says the 
teachers make you feel that you must live up 


OPPORTUNITY 


79 


to your very best in study, and in all the other 
duties of life as well. They even tell them how 
they must lie in bed to get the most rest out 
of sleep. I shouldn’t wonder if they had such 
things in a school course, some time, and why 
not? Why shouldn’t they teach how to make 
a house healthful, and have good drains, and 
what kinds of food should be eaten together! 

Miss Hurst and I get on slowly with our 
Cicero, but we are doing something. Cicero 
certainly had a great command of adjectives 
when he attempted to give his opinion of Cati- 
line, and the “audacia effrenata” of the last- 
named gentleman has become a favorite expres- 
sion with us. Mother is much interested too, 
and is able to give us a helpful hint, now and 
then, out of the storehouse of her memory. 
Amelia and Charles declare that they will stick 
to their live tongue at present, and leave the 
dead ones to Mark and me. 

June 1. The spring vacation brought Mark 
to us for ten days, ten happy, happy days. He 
is much pleased with everything about the farm. 
Brother Charles is a treasure indeed, and sister 
Amelia is a double treasure. She was always 
quieter than I, and she fits into the home so 
sweetly that I do not see how we ever managed 
without her. She is as dear an older sister as 
can be, a wise and loving mother, and a great 


80 


DORIS 


comfort to our mother. Mark says that he 
never could have left us if she had not been 
here, and she says that if her boys grow up like 
their father and Mark she will have nothing 
more to ask. You see, Juna, what a nice family 
we are, and how much we admire each other. 

I have several letters in my box from John 
Allen, and I read them over and over. I can- 
not see why Mark dislikes him so. I think he 
is nice, and I should miss his letters very much 
if he did not write. Do you think he loves me, 
dear Juna? He always sends me verses that 
he has written, and they are beautiful, about the 
love of a knight for his lady fair. It would 
be beautiful to he loved as the old knights loved 
their ladies. I hope John will be my valiant 
knight, brave and true, ready to lay down his 
life for me, hut you must never, never tell. 


CHAPTER VII 
MT. HOLYOKE 

/MOTHER,’ ’ said Amelia, ‘ 4 don’t you 
1VJL think we can send Doris to Mt. Holyoke 
next year? She is twenty, and if she is ever 
going, it is time. We are getting along so well 
with the farm, I am sure we can manage with- 
out her, but perhaps it is too late even now to 
get her a place.’ ’ 

Mother and daughter were sitting over their 
basket of weekly mending, on a summer after- 
noon. Teachers and twins were at school, as 
usual, and this was their hour for conference 
and confidence. 

“Yes, daughter, it is high time; I am glad 
you have spoken of it.” 

“Has Doris said anything about it to you, 
mother?” 

“No, nothing directly, for a long time. You 
know she is very slow to ask anything for her- 
self, but I am sure she is thinking about it and 
longing very much to go. There is an eager 
look in her eyes when Keren’s letters come that 
goes to my heart.” 

“Yes, I have noticed that, the dear unselfish 
81 


82 


DORIS 


child! It is hard to realize that our baby is 
twenty, isn’t it, mother ?” 

“It is, indeed,” said Mrs. Banner, with a 
sigh; “but we must be unselfish too. It is quite 
possible to get Doris a place, for when we were 
at the anniversary exercises last August I ar- 
ranged with Miss Lyon to send her at the open- 
ing of the next year. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And never told us ! Mother, I did not think 
you were so full of guile.” 

“Well, dear, I was not sure; and Miss Lyon 
said that if we found it impossible there would 
be some one else glad of the place. So I waited 
for developments.” 

“Have you given Doris a hint?” 

“No; but now that you and I have come to 
the same conclusion from separate standpoints, 
I think it is time to tell her. We shall have to 
begin right away to make her frocks and other 
things. There she is now with a twin on each 
side of her. Miss Hurst must have been de- 
tained.” 

“Mother, moth-e-r,” shouted two boyish 
voices in concert. 

“Yes, Johnny, there is some gingerbread 
on the shelf before the pantry window. You 
boys take it out under the apple tree and eat 
it, after you have cooled off a little.” 

“How’d you know, mother?” 



SOUTH CAMPUS, MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE. 














































* 



MT. HOLYOKE 83 

“ Trust mothers for knowing, little men. 
Now, run along.” 

“Aunt Doris come too,” said Jimmy, as lie 
quickly obeyed. 

“ Aunt Doris has to be ‘kept in’ now; she can- 
not go,” said Mrs. Banner. 

“Has she been naughty, grandma?” whis- 
pered Johnny, with a sorrowful droop of his 
lip. 

“Not very; run along.” 

“What are you two dignified matrons look- 
ing so wise and solemn about? If you were as 
warm as I am you could not keep still long 
enough to look solemn. I don’t believe those 
poor children have learned one thing this hot 
day. When I am governor of Connecticut there 
shall be no school in summer,” gasped Doris, 
sinking into a chair. 

“In the meantime, daughter, while you are 
waiting to be governor, what would you like 
best to do?” 

“Oh, mother, I am almost afraid to tell you; 
you may think it selfish.” 

“Then suppose I tell you what I most want 
you to do ; you will not call me selfish. Do you 
think you can get ready to enter Mt. Holyoke 
next year?” 

“Mother, ’Melia, you don’t mean it! Can 
I go and may I go, really?” 


84 


DORIS 


“Yes, dear child, we see nothing now to 
hinder.’ ’ 

“Does Mark know and does he approve?” 

“Yes; a letter came to-day, and he is as 
anxious as you are to have you go.” 

“We shall not be far from each other, and 
he can come over to see me sometimes. Oh, I 
am so happy — happy — happy! You are the 
dearest mother and sister in the wide, wide 
world,” and Doris, with the old loving gesture 
of her childhood, threw her arms around her 
mother’s neck. “There, you dear mother, de- 
fend yourself if you can. But — but — I never 
thought, perhaps I cannot get in.” 

“You are already 4 in,’ ” said Amelia; 
“mother arranged with Miss Lyon last year.” 

“Well, you are a pretty pair of conspirators. 
Catiline isn’t a circumstance beside you. We 
shall finish school here next week, and soon 
Mark will be home, and then we shall be happy 
all together over everything. Keren is com- 
ing to the Jones’s too. Did ever anybody have 
such a dear family and such good times com- 
ing to them?” cried Doris, whirling around the 
room as if the mercury were at zero. 

There was a chill in the air when Mark came 
home. A soft crimson had here and there 
touched a leaf to splendor. The September sun 


MT. HOLYOKE 


85 


still shone warm at midday, but the long twi- 
lights faded early from purple to gray, and 
deepened into dusky shadows, while lonely 
whippoorwills mourned and called from wood- 
land coverts. 

4 ‘ There he is, mother, coming around the 
bend o ’ the road. Don ’t tell the twins ; I want 
him first. What a pity you can’t run, mother 
dear; I’ll give him your love the very first 
thing. ’ ’ 

Doris flew down the path and along the road. 
Mark came with swinging stride to meet her, 
with his hat in one hand and his flowered carpet- 
bag in the other. He laid them both down to 
receive her eager greeting. 

‘ 4 Oh, how big and tall and splendid you are ! ’ ’ 
she cried; “I am so glad to see you Dll just 
have to cry, unless you do something to stop me 
quick.” 

4 ‘We will hurry on to see mother and ’Melia 
so fast you won’t have time to cry, little sister. 
Come on.” 

He waved his hat as his mother came through 
the gate. 

“How well you look, mater. Oh, it is good to 
get home ! ’Melia, have you grown gray taking 
care of this big family? As I’m alive, what 
savages are these? Help! Murder! Fire! 
I’ll take you both to prison.” 


86 


BORIS 


He took a twin under each arm, and carried . 
them kicking and screaming to the house, where 
he set them down and took a quick glance around. 

“Charles is at the mill? How well kept 
everything looks. I shall have to acknowledge 
that he is a better farmer than I. ’ ’ 

“ He is somewhat older than you, my son . 9 9 

“Yes, a little. What do you say, Crinkles, 
shall you and I do the milking to-night — have 
you forgotten how?” 

“No, indeed; I’ll get the pails. Juna, 
Cowslip and Buttercup are all there, though I 
don’t often see them these days. It will seem 
like dear old times,” and Doris disappeared 
through the kitchen door. 

“You will spend all your vacation at home, 
Mark? You need to rest, and there is enough 
to do here to keep you busy and out of mis- 
chief.” 

His mother’s eyes were wistful, and he was 
struck with their beauty. 

“Your eyes look like violets that grow in 
shady places, with dew on them; or maybe it 
is rain,” he added gently as they brimmed 
over. “Of course I am going to stay, mater 
dear. I am going to sleep in my own bed to- 
night.” 

“Mother,” he said, with sudden seriousness, 
“is Keren here?” 


MT. HOLYOKE 87 

“Yes,” she answered, with a sympathetic 
smile. 

“Mark, Mark,” called Doris, “see who will 
get to the barn first,” and he hurried after her. 

‘ ‘ Mark, ’ ’ said that young person, as she gave 
Juna some preliminary pats, “can we find time 
for some Homer while you are home ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, indeed; let us see if we can finish the 
fourth book. I know you will be busy getting 
ready to go to Mt. Holyoke, but I think we can 
manage it. So — so there, bossy, so — so, Butter- 
cup, so,” and the milk splashed into foaming 
pails. 

All too quickly the vacation passed away. 
Doris was the first to leave the home nest, and 
Mark was there to read with his mother the 
bright letter that told of her first impressions 
and experiences at Mt. Holyoke. 

South Hadley, Oct . 5, 1847. 
Dearest Mother: — 

I wish you could look into our room this eve- 
ning. I say “our” room, for Miss Lyon kindly 
granted Keren’s request that we might room 
together for the present. They have a “shake 
up” every few months, and change room- 
mates, in order that we may get used to living 
with all sorts of people. I suppose that is a 
part of the discipline of which I hear so much. 


88 


DORIS 


We are on the fourth floor, and there is a very 
nice set of young ladies up here. Miss Lyon 
calls for volunteers for this floor, as it is not 
so convenient, and Keren volunteered. That 
is why I am numbered with the good ones. We 
have a Franklin stove, and the tiny grate is 
open now, with a bed of glowing coals that 
makes me think of the dear big fireplace at 
home. There is no time to be homesick, though 
there is a great tugging at my heart for you all. 
Before my trunk was unpacked I was assigned 
to the 4 4 silver circle,’ ’ and was shown where 
the silver was kept, how cleaned and how 
placed on the table. It is no small task to care 
for the silver used by about three hundred peo- 
ple. The girls in the circle are nice, and we 
have merry times. One little dark-eyed girl 
from the South had never washed a dish in her 
life, and I caught her scouring a fine spoon with 
Bath brick. It was dreadfully scratched. 
Poor Anita ! she cried for an hour, but she will 
never clean silver with Bath brick again. 
Keren is the “leader” of the “bread circle,” 
and she has to get up very early on bread morn- 
ings. Her bread is fine and everybody praises 
her. 

Miss Lyon has been most kind, taking time 
to* talk with me about my studies when she 
might have left it to some of the other teachers. 


MT. HOLYOKE 


89 


They are not quite arranged yet, as I am some- 
what irregular, but for the most part happily 
so. My knowledge of Latin is a great advan- 
tage. As soon as I know definitely, I will write 
out my schedule and send you. 

Keren is like a dear older sister (I sometimes 
think she will be my real sister some day), and 
helps me to get into the system that is every- 
where manifest, but is not at all irksome to any 
one who chooses to obey. I am so glad you 
taught me to obey when I was little, mother 
dear ; it is not hard now. 

One of the first students has been here for a 
visit, and came down to the kitchen, where our 
circle was working this morning. She told us 
of some droll experiences of those early days. 
The need for close economy was great, and as 
the whole thing was on trial, Miss Lyon was 
continually trying experiments with the food, 
usually with good results. One night ginger- 
bread appeared on the table in generous quan- 
tity for supper, and Miss Lyon watched the 
girls closely. The first girl who tasted it made 
a peculiar grimace, which was repeated with 
varying expressions all along the line as the 
gingerbread passed on. 

“Young ladies/ ’ said Miss Lyon, “I know 
that potatoes are often put into bread to keep 
it moist, and it occurred to me that if the squash 


90 


DORIS 


left from dinner was pnt into the gingerbread 
it might have a similar effect. I see from the 
expression of your faces that it is not a 
success.” 

No one laughs more heartily than Miss Lyon 
over such blunders, and if she had been there 
she would have joined in the gale of laughter 
that swept through the kitchen. 

Keren reminds me that it is nearly bed- 
time, and that I must get ready. She sends 
much love, and I send oceans. 

Always your baby, Dokis. 

Mark was soon on his way to enter the Junior 
year of his college course, which opened auspi- 
ciously. Unknown to him, his scholarship was 
attracting the attention of the heads of the de- 
partments. Not long after his return, to his 
great surprise, he was called to the office of one 
whom he especially revered, and found the great 
man alone and waiting for him. 

“Mr. Banner,’ ’ he said, “my colleagues and 
I have felt for some time that you were show- 
ing unusual ability in your studies, and an 
earnest purpose in your work; and not only 
that, but we believe that you have, to a marked 
degree, high spiritual aspirations. May I ask 
whether you intend to enter the ministry ?” 

“No, sir,” said Mark humbly, but with 


MT. HOLYOKE 


91 


straightforward manf ulness ; “I have never had 
a 4 call’ to preach, but I feel — and I say it with 
reverence, sir — that I have a distinct call from 
God to teach. It seems to me as holy a calling. 
If I might influence a soul, hungering for knowl- 
edge, as you have influenced me, I should count 
it the highest success. I cannot hope for that, 
sir, but, so far as I may, I must try.” 

Mark’s clear gray eyes looked steadfastly 
into the eyes of the older man, that were dim 
with tears, and in the eloquent silence that fol- 
lowed two great souls drew near to each other. 
The teacher held out his hand and the pupil 
grasped it with a strong, lingering clasp. 

4 4 Mark, you do not know what a cup of cold 
water you have pressed to my lips to-day, what 
an overflowing cup. I was a-thirst. God grant 
that in the years to come you may find like re- 
freshment. And now will you come to me as 
to a father whenever you feel that I can help 
you % ’ 9 

“ I will, sir; I will,” and Mark, deeply moved, 
left the room, feeling that he had stood on a 
mount of privilege with one who saw with wide 
vision the Truth. He walked far out into the 
country, along quiet lanes and bypaths, return- 
ing to his room in the clear starlight of an au- 
tumn night. He stood a moment at the door- 


92 DORIS 

way, baring bis bead and lifting his face np to 
the sky. 

“God, I thank Thee,” he whispered; “help 
me to teach for Thee and for Eternity.” 

So Wordsworth wrote of a like consecration: 

“Ah! need I say, dear friend, that to the 
brim 

My heart was full ; I made no vows, but 
vows 

Were then made for me; bond unknown 
to me 

Was given, that I should be, else sinning 
greatly, 

A dedicated spirit.” 

Meanwhile into these days of studious life 
came bright, breezy letters from Doris that 
linked seminary and college closely together. 
Mark’s room-mate, Robert Courtney, looked 
with envious eyes as he read, with sudden 
laughter or serious face, her well-filled sheets 
from time to time. 

“I would give ten years of my life, Banner, 
to have a mother and sisters like yours,” he 
said one evening as they sat at their study 
table, with ponderous lexicons between them, 
and “the bright lexicon of youth” all their own. 
Mark was reading eagerly, but Robert went on : 


MT. HOLYOKE 93 

i c You know I have no memory of father or 
mother, and I have no brother or sister/ ’ 

“And well yon might give much, Courtney. 
I am sorry I cannot help you, chum ; but I think 
I may share most of this with you. Would you 
like to hear it?” 

“Yes, indeed, if I may.” 

South Hadley , Oct . 20, 1847 . 
Dearest of Brothers : — 

I am really settled and fixed in this wonder- 
ful system. I am filled with amazement that 
one Female ( !) ever planned and carried out a 
project like this. Everything goes like clock- 
work. I feel like the Queen of Sheba — the half 
was not told me. 

I am so happy about one thing that I can 
hardly help shouting in the most improper 
places. I am learning to play the piano — me, 
Doris Banner. You ought to hear Keren play. 
She does wonderfully well, her teacher says, 
and so say I. Then we have a singing class, 
and our teacher says that I have a little voice 
of my own. You know I always loved to sing 
high. Keren sings a sweet second, and we have 
delightful times together. If only we had your 
strong tenor. 

Miss Lyon has found time to call me to her 
room and talk with me about my studies. She 


94 


DORIS 


was greatly pleased that I had enough Latin 
for the course, and when I told her that I had 
read four books of the Anabasis and several 
of Homer she drew a deep breath, and said 
earnestly : 

“My dear child, you ought to be very thank- 
ful; you have had great opportunities in your 
own home. I wish we might have Greek in our 
course; it gives a kind of culture that nothing 
else can. The time will come before many 
years.’ ’ 

There was a far-away look in her eyes that 
filled me with awe. Well, if any one is a thank- 
ful girl, it is Doris Banner. I am to take 
French, Euclid, Cutter’s Physiology and New- 
man’s Rhetoric. I passed a good examination 
in Algebra and English Grammar, thanks to 
Miss Hurst. You know that I have read a great 
deal of ancient and modern history with mother, 
and Miss Lyon said that I could take an ex- 
amination in the history of the first year if I 
chose. I did choose, and, Mirabile dictu, 
passed. I told her that I should like to finish 
the course in two years, and she thinks it quite 
possible. 

I am realizing what excellent teachers you 
and mother have been. Then I have had Miss 
Grey and Miss Hurst, and now I have the whole 
of Mt. Holyoke and Miss Lyon. Oh, Mark, 


MT. HOLYOKE 


95 


dearest brother, I am grateful to God, and I 
try to be good. We have “silent half-hours” 
every day, when each girl is alone in her room. 
We are supposed to think and pray, or at least 
to have an opportunity to do so without inter- 
ruption. I really do, and read my Bible then, 
as dear mother asked me to do. 

There is an atmosphere here that impresses 
every one. Miss Lyon is very cheerful, viva- 
cious even, and likes all her “daughters” to be 
happy and gay, but there is a deep under- 
current of religious feeling, and we realize that, 
while she keeps us all to as high a literary 
standard as possible, she wishes more than any- 
thing else to have us good. 

I cannot stop to tell you more now, but I will 
some time. Write as often as you can to your 
little sister, always lonely without you. 

Doris. 

The weeks and months of Doris’s first year 
at Mt. Holyoke passed rapidly. She was still a 
merry comrade, full of eager impulse and true 
of heart. 

“Be careful, my dear,” said Miss Lyon, as 
she met her alone in the hall, one May morning, 
“that you do not laugh too much in the wrong 
place. I love your merry laugh, and would 
never take a glad note from it — but sometimes 


96 DORIS 

I would have you laugh less at one time and 
more at another.’ ’ 

“Oh, dear Miss Lyon,” cried Doris, with 
burning cheeks, 4 4 that is my old fault. Do you 
think I shall ever overcome it? I mean to be 
right in laughing as well as in doing, but the 
funny side of almost everything strikes me so 
irresistibly that I laugh without thinking. And 
I am twenty-one. Oh, you don’t know how hard 
it is to overcome.” 

4 4 My child,” said Miss Lyon, with a merry 
twinkle in her blue eyes, “I do know. I am 
over fifty and have not yet done trying to over- 
come. But, Doris, the other day, when Harriet 
was reading in the Bible about the Hittites, and 
called them Hity-tites, you laughed, and it 
called the attention of every one to her igno- 
rance. It did not seem quite kind, did it ? ” 

4 4 Oh, Miss Lyon,” cried Doris penitently, “I 
was not laughing at her ignorance, but at the 
appropriateness of the word. She* is herself 
such a hoity-toity. I am sorry.” 

4 4 And now that I have reproved you,” Miss 
Lyon went on gently, 4 4 let me tell you that I 
am much pleased with your work and general 
behavior. Your influence as a Christian girl is 
very helpful, and I know that I can depend on 
you wherever your duty calls. ’ ’ 


MT. HOLYOKE 97 

Doris went to her room in a state of glorified 
humility. She found Keren there studying. 

“ Keren / 9 she said, “except our mother, Miss 
Lyon is the most wonderful woman in the 
world . 9 9 

“Have you just found that out?” asked 
Keren, lifting her eyes from her hook. ‘ 1 I knew 
that long ago, and so does every one who comes 
under her influence. Your cheeks are hot; let 
us go down through the orchard, across the 
brook and up the hill. The buds are swelling 
on the trees, and we will bring an ‘ observation ’ 
into the Botany class that will astonish them 
all.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 

T HE beginning of the academic year in the 
autumn of 1848 found our trio of stu- 
dents back in their chosen places. Doris and 
Keren were to be graduated from Mt. Holyoke, 

at the close of the year, and Mark from A . 

And then? Life looked fair, and their hearts 
were undaunted by apprehension of evil or of 
sorrow. They would teach; in homes of their 
own, they would fill to the full life’s cup of joy; 
and through the vista of the coming years they 
saw awaiting them only light and happiness. 

The pile of letters, signed always 4 4 semper 
tides,” filled Doris’s treasure-box, and, care- 
fully tied with a white ribbon, were deposited in 
a corner of her trunk, while a new collection 
gathered in place of the old. Mark had ground 
his teeth in wrath as he brought them from the 
post-office during vacation. 

4 4 She is so sweet and reasonable about most 
things,” he had said to his mother, as Doris 
carried her letter to her room one day, 4 4 it 
makes me downright angry to see her so obsti- 
nate in this. That puppy! Sometimes when 
I think of Doris and John Allen I could almost 
kill him.” 


98 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 99 

“Be careful, be careful, Mark. He proposes 
nothing serious yet.” 

“Yes, but he will when he dares, and he has 
no more manhood than our Jimmy, nor half so 
much. To think of a girl like Doris ” 

“She sees him through a haze of romance, 
Mark. To her he is a knight on a noble quest, 
and she is his fair lady. All women love the 
worshipful adoration of a good man, and to 
each of us our knight seems valiant and true. 
God grant that our little girl may get her eyes 
open before it is too late. He is far too small 
in mind and heart for her, but he is not a bad 
man, and *we will hope for the best. I think I 
need have no anxiety about your love affairs, 
my son,” she said, with a smile. Mark, with 
an answering smile, left the room. 

And now the days were filled for all with 
earnest work. Home letters went often from 
the farm to seminary and college. Bright let- 
ters from college and seminary to the farm 
kept each in touch with the others. Doris wrote 
from South Hadley: 

Dear Mother : — 

We are as busy as bees. Miss Lyon has 
given our class this motto, which I am sure you 
will like: 

“Freely ye have received, freely give.” 


100 


DORIS 


We are finishing Euclid, and Keren is much 
better in it than I am, but I like Chemistry and 
Butler’s Analogy better than she. Our music 
is a great joy to us both, though she is ahead 
of me. In French we are about equally 
matched, and “parlez vous” often to each 
other. There is no doubt that we shall both be 
able, if we keep well, to finish this year ; and if 
we do not, it will not be the fault of these teach- 
ers, for they all look after us like mothers. I 
don’t need to tell you how that is, do I, dear- 
est of mothers? 

Miss Lyon’s vigor is amazing. Those who 
know her best say that she seems to have taken 
a new lease of life. She is able now to leave 
all the domestic arrangements in other hands, 
and give her time to the mental and spiritual 
life of her daughters. How any one can live 
here and not want to be very good I cannot see. 
We have missionary meetings, prayer meetings 
and meetings for those not definitely Christians, 
and yet, with all this serious undercurrent, we 
are encouraged to be as merry and happy “as 
all good girls should be.” 

Her heart is so big that it takes in the whole 
world, and she has let two of her own nieces go 
as missionaries. They were teachers here, and 
were as dear as really own daughters to her. 
Then Miss Fidelia Fiske, another teacher, went 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 101 

to Persia, which was a great joy as well as 
grief. 

But here I am telling you things that you 
know already. Good-night. Always your little 

Doris. 

P.S. — I am sending you some leaves from my 
journal, because I think you will enjoy them. 
Please preserve them for me ; I must never lose 
them. 

Miss Lyon’s morning talks in Seminary Hall 
are full of serious persuasive tenderness. She 
walks rapidly into the hall, with her worn Bible 
under her arm. Her face has a wonderful light 
in it, and we know that she has come to us from 
her hour of prayer. She wears a simple cotton 
dress, a plain collar, and a snow-white cap. As 
she stands on the platform, we rise to receive 
her greeting, “Good morning, ladies.” 

We sing a hymn after she has read it, with 
beautiful expression, and then she sits with her 
hand on her Bible and, without gesture, ex- 
plains the lesson of the day. These hours are 
profoundly, sweetly solemn, and we feel the 
strength and beauty of her message. We come 
away often awed into reverence, and stimulated 
to do our best in the service of God. 

Often she makes us feel that the very ends 
of the earth are calling to us, individually, for 


102 


DORIS 


salvation, and we are glad to give all we possi- 
bly can to send missionaries to heathen lands, 
among them some of her most cherished daugh- 
ters, to help teach and preach the kingdom of 
God. 

I will copy a few things here from my note- 
book that I want especially to remember : 

“ Never expect to govern others until you 
govern yourself.” 

“ Never teach immortal minds for money. 
If your object is money-making, be milliners or 
dressmakers ; teaching is a sacred employ- 
ment.” 

4 ‘It is important to be prepared to be good 
mothers ; you can then easily become good teach- 
ers, and will in any case be good members of 
society.” 

“Be perfect in all your requirements here, 
and you will have power to control yourself any- 
where.” 

“Go where no one else will go, not seeking 
the praise of men, but the favor that comes from 
God only.” 

“If work needs to be done, and no one wants 
to do it, that is the work for you. Much of the 
work of the world, if done at all, must be done 
for love, not for pecuniary returns.” 

“It is a serious thing to live, to have re- 
sponsibility, not only for your own life, but 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 


103 


for your conscious and unconscious influence. 
No act, no word can be known to be without fu- 
ture consequences.” 

“The Seminary is His (God’s), built by His 
direction. I have no more expectation that it 
will die than that I shall cease to exist in 
eternity. I doubt not that these walls (meaning 
the school) will stand to do His work in the 
millennium. ’ ’ 

She urges us not to follow her methods too 
closely without adapting them to our own per- 
sonality and to the circumstances in which we 
may be placed. 

Miss Lyon’s afternoon talks are often full of 
wit and merriment, and we learn many a valu- 
able lesson while waves of laughter are sweep- 
ing through the Hall. In every way, by seri- 
ous entreaty, merry laughter, and always with 
utter unselfishness and profound thoughtful- 
ness, she tries to lead us to the attainment of 
the highest and best. Sometimes she is very 
beautiful. Her strong, sweet voice must echo 
always, I think, through these halls, and in the 
hearts of her daughters here in New England, 
in far-away Persia, India, China, or wherever 
they may be. 

“Never scold,” she said one day; “if you 


104 DORIS 

cannot teach without scolding, lay aside your 
office.’ ’ 

One day she was talking to us about the care 
of our health, and said that if we could not 
take care of ourselves we ought to go to a school 
for little girls, adding, in her vivacious way : 

4 4 There are two things, young ladies, that we 
expressly say you must not do here. One is 
that you must not violate the fire laws; the 
other is that you must not kill yourselves. If 
you will persist in killing yourselves by reck- 
less exposure, we think it would be better for 
you to go home and die in the arms of your dear 
mothers.” 

Midwinter came and went. The year was 
drawing near its springtime, and all seemed 
well at Mt. Holyoke, when a deep shadow fell. 
Doris wrote at once to her brother for counsel : 

My deae Maek : — 

I write to you first because I do not want to 
alarm mother. One of the senior girls is ill 
with erysipelas. The doctor does not think it 
is likely to be serious, but you remember what 
a dreadful time they had in the village at home 
a few years ago. Now if it should develop into 
anything alarming, ought I to stay or go home 
immediately f 

Keren and I have talked it over, and if I go 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 


105 


she will. We are not at all afraid and would 
much rather stay, unless the school should be 
closed. I do hope you both will say, “Stay, un- 
less the school is closed.* ’ 

Hastily but always lovingly, Dokis. 

A few days later Mrs. Banner received the 
following letter from her daughter : 

Mt. Holyoke , Feb. 24, 1849. 

Oh, mother, mother, the senior girl is going 
to die, and many of the students are in a panic 
of fear! Miss Lyon has ordered disinfectants 
sent to every part of the house, and called us 
all together in Seminary Hall. She was so calm 
and full of courage, and told us we might go 
home if any of us were afraid, but that the 
work of the school would go on as usual. I am 
very glad that you and Mark wrote for me to 
decide as I thought best, and we shall stay. 

I wish you could have heard Miss Lyon talk 
to us about death. It seemed really beautiful 
as she begged us to follow our dying friend up 
to the “Celestial City and, as its pearly gates 
opened to receive her, look in and catch a 
glimpse of its glories.* * No one of us can for- 
get the rapture in her face as she exclaimed: 

“Oh, if it were I, how happy I would be to 
go!” But added quickly: “Not that I would 
be unclothed while I can do anything for you, 


106 DORIS 

my children.” She went on with inexpressible 
tenderness : 

“ Shall we fear what God is about to do?” 
and added, with an emphasis that thrilled our 
very souls: “There is nothing in the universe 
that I fear hut that I shall not know all my 
duty or shall fail to do it.” 

j Feb. 26 . I did not get my letter posted, dear 
mother. Our friend is dead and her father car- 
ried her body away yesterday. Of course we 
are all very sad, but — Keren came in just 
now, her face as white as a sheet. Oh, mother, 
mother, dear Miss Lyon is very ill. I will write 
again soon. 

A week of sharp agony for the beloved 
teacher followed. Pupils and teachers waited 
and listened with baited breath, and then the 
end came. Her great loving heart and active 
brain knew thenceforth no weariness, no pain. 

They carried her in solemn procession to the 
church, to which on anniversary days she led 
her light-hearted followers. Her daughters fol- 
lowed her with bowed head and tearful eyes. 

They buried her near an oak, east of the 
Seminary building, on a gentle hill; as the 
school journal recorded the sad experience of 
the hour, it was to them “like the blotting of 
the sun out of the heavens at midday.” 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 


107 


Mary Lyon, of immortal fame ! College girls 
of a later day, by thousands and tens of thou- 
sands, from Mt. Holyoke and from every college 
for women in the United States, and even from 
schools around the world, bring to you their 
tribute of undying gratitude for the work you 
wrought. 

Do you know, we wonder, in that fair land 
to which you have gone, of the far-reaching 
results of your labors? Do you know that your 
dream has come true, that large as are the privi- 
leges of culture for the men of our great Re- 
public, the women of our day hold equal op- 
portunity with the best? And do you know 
that, far beyond your dreaming, your country 
has honored you, pioneer of the highest educa- 
tion for women ; that in the Hall of Fame, con- 
nected with one of the great universities of 
America, your name stands first in its majestic 
corridor, crowned again and again with chaplets 
of roses? 

The routine of school went on as usual after 
those days of silence and sorrowful waiting. 
Should teachers and pupils work less earnestly 
or faithfully because the active brain and heart 
were at rest ? There seemed an added incentive 
to every effort, and the class of 1849 came to 
their anniversary day with chastened hearts 


108 DORIS 

and, almost without exception, with honorable 
record. 

Doris and Keren looked much like the 
‘ ‘ flowers ’ ’ of 1846, in their snowy muslin gowns. 
No fairer girls received their diplomas that 
eventful day than Keren, with her coronet of 
red-gold hair wound about her stately head, and 
her deep, shadowy eyes; and Doris, with her 
tender eyes of violet-blue and irrepressible 
chestnut curls. Mrs. Banner and Amelia were 
looking proudly on, and Mark had come over 

from A for the day and the social evening 

at the Seminary. 

The next day Mark took his degree at A , 

with mother, sisters and the friend of his child- 
hood in the audience. He was proudly con- 
scious of them all — of his mother, who had a 
look of elevation that startled him; of Amelia, 
with her sweet matronly airs ; of Doris, 
dimpling and smiling with the old dear com- 
radeship of their childhood ; of a pair of dusky 
eyes and a crown of Titian hair that often held 
him by their spell. 

During the long ride home they talked of the 
plans for the coming year, already matured. 
Mark was engaged as teacher of Greek and 
Latin in the well-established academy for boys 
at Barnwell, Massachusetts, and would enter on 
his chosen career with the opening of the school 


LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL 


109 


year in October. Doris bad accepted an offer 
to return to Mt. Holyoke as an assistant teacher 
in Latin, with opportunity to continue her study 
of French and music. Keren had suddenly laid 
aside, for a time, her cherished plan of teach- 
ing, to pay a debt of loving gratitude to the only 
mother she had ever known, a service which was 
to bring her full reward for her sacrifice in a 
real relationship as of mother and child. 

4 ‘ Do you think I could say ‘ no ’ to that, Mrs. 
Banner ?” asked Keren, drawing a letter from 
her bag. “Please read it and tell me that I 
have decided wisely. ’ 9 

“dere keren,” the letter ran, “i now take my 
pen in hand to let you no that i am well, and 
hope this may find you in the same state, i 
cannot say the same for mis Jones, she is very 
porely, and there is not much prospects of her 
ever bein any better, when she has rote you 
she sed nothin about it. she says keren is an 
eddicated lady and wants to teech. i cannot ask 
her to come hum to stay, for this is her. hum and 
she seems like a darter to me, and teers fel when 
she sed it. she doos not no that i am ritin this, 
no more at present. Zachakiah Jones.” 

“When did you receive this, Keren?” 

“Only yesterday. I went at once to Miss 
Whitman and asked if I could be released from 


110 


BORIS 


the engagement she had made for me. The re- 
quest for a teacher had been for a Mt. Holyoke 
graduate whom she could recommend, and not 
for any special person. She knows of a young 
lady who will do just as well as I, and when 
I told her the circumstances she released me at 
once. But tell me, do you think Mrs. Jones will 
not get welir ’ 

“I am sorry to tell you that it is only a ques- 
tion of time, my dear. It may be a few weeks 
or months, or it may be a year ; no one can tell, 
but she cannot live long. I visit her often, but 
she made me promise that I would not tell you. 
She loves you like a daughter, Keren, but she is 
so reserved she has not been able to show all 
that she has felt. I am very glad that you have 
decided to stay with her. I felt sure you would 
when you saw how much she needed some one 
to care for her.” 

“She was always kind to me,” said Keren, 
with quivering lip ; “I will stay with her to the 
end, and she shall know a daughter’s care.” 


CHAPTEE IX 

UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 

A YEAE of life, how soon it slips away; 

its record written on human hearts and 
faces in characters never to be erased ! So fled 
the year after the well-earned diplomas had 
been laid aside as treasured keepsakes, and each 
took up the duty that stood next. 

Mark made a record as an educator that did 

not escape his friends in the faculty at A , 

who, unknown to him, were closely watching 
his career. Doris, in the loved surroundings 
of Mt. Holyoke, acquitted herself with credit as 
a teacher, and, beloved by all, came to the close 
of the year proficient in French and with an 
enviable knowledge of music, ready for the next 
task awaiting her. She had learned well her 
lesson, and no longer laughed in the wrong 
places. A quick remembrance of Miss Lyon’s 
serious face and sympathetic eyes, as the im- 
pulse came, was always her safeguard. Her 
merry laugh still rang with contagious sweet- 
ness, her sunny personality radiated in the 
schoolroom and in social events ; but, as Jimmy 
had long ago expressed his conviction, so the 
girls of her classes realized, “We has to mind 


112 DORIS 

her, and if we don’t do it qnick she looks at ns 
so it shivers ns.” 

And yet, to the sore discomfort of her 
mother, sister and Mark, another bundle of let- 
ters, “semper fides,” tied with a white ribbon, 
were in her trunk corner, and the treasure-box 
was filling again. Blind little Doris! The 
hearts that loved her best were torn with 
anxiety for her dear sake, but along this path 
of her strange choosing she went her way. 

In the old farmhouse, the home of her child- 
hood, Keren served as housekeeper and nurse, 
taking up the familiar tasks as if she had never 
laid them down. She transformed the chilly, 
prim front room into a warm and cheery in- 
valid’s chamber, and, together with the faith- 
ful Mr. Jones, watched a waning life through 
slow months of patient suffering. The bond of 
love strengthened daily, and often, toward the 
last, a faint voice whispered, “My daughter,” 
and a worn face glowed with happiness as she 
heard the quick response, “What is it, dear 
mother? What can I do for you?” 

At the farm, life went on with busy cheerful- 
ness. The twins kept the atmosphere electric, 
as only healthy boys of thirteen can. They were 
still alike, so far as outward appearance was 
concerned, save for the black eyes and blue, 
but were developing mentally in widely differ- 


UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 113 


ent directions. Jimmy was his father’s right- 
hand man on the farm, quick to see what needed 
to be done and eager to lend a hand. His merry 
eyes were brimming with mischief and endless 
were the pranks he played on his long-suffering 
twin. He longed for the time when school 
should be over, and begged : 

‘ 4 Father, what’s the use of my goin’ to school 
any more? I hate to. Teacher said the other 
day she wished I could learn with my hands 
’stead of my head. She says I’m real good in 
’Rithmetic, good as Jack, ’cause I can work 
my hands at it, but I’m mis-able at the rest, 
an’ my hands are just achin’ to do somethin’, 
anythin’, all the time. Then Satan gets me,” 
said Jimmy ruefully, with a long-drawn sigh. 
‘ ‘ Teacher says, ‘ Satan finds some mischief still 
for idle hands to do.’ I’m a terrible trouble, 
father; I know I am; but I don’t want to be 
bad, truly I don ’t. ’ ’ 

He looked into his father’s face, his clear, 
honest, boyish eyes making a strong ap- 
peal. 

“ Just try me for a year, father; let me work 
with you, an’ I’ll learn two lessons a day, an’ 
recite ’em to mother. She knows a lot more’n 
the teacher. I’ll learn ’em good, see if I 
don’t.” 

“Well, my son, we will talk it over with 


114 


DORIS 


mother. Perhaps it will be the best thing to do. 
But do you think you could get along and work 
without Johnny; he doesn’t want to leave 
school, does he?” 

“Jack leave school!” exclaimed Jimmy in 
amazement. “He’s what Mr. Jones calls a 
4 book wurrum. ’ You know, father, how he pulls 
over Uncle Mark’s books an’ Aunt Doris’s, an’ 
gets at Great-grandfather West’s, when grand- 
ma will let him. He lies on the haymow an’ 
reads, an’ reads, an’ down by the brook, an’ 
mother said she found some books under his 
bed. You’ll let Jack go to school ’f I do stop, 
won’t you, father? You know he’s real good 
to work, too, if you can only get him at it, an’ 
he’ll help after school,” pleaded loyal Jimmy. 

“Yes, indeed, Johnny shall go to school as 
long as he likes. Maybe he will be a teacher 
like Uncle Mark.” 

“My cracky!” exploded Jimmy, and ran at 
full speed, to find his mother skimming milk in 
the pantry. He hoped by diplomatic coaxing, 
witfi his arms around her neck in a bear’s hug, 
to forestall any objections she might make when 
father and she should talk it over. He was suc- 
cessful. 

Johnny came around a corner as Jimmy 
emerged with a doughnut. 

“Go in an’ get one,” he commanded; 


UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 115 


“mother’s in there. Hurry up; I’ve somethin’ 
to tell you, an’ I’m most bustin’.” 

He was executing a back-handed somer- 
sault as Johnny appeared with his doughnut, 
which he immediately laid down, and joined in 
the performance. Over and over they went, 
coming up at last breathless. 

“Now,” demanded Johnny, with his mouth 
full, “what’s up; what’s the matter, Jim 
Brewster!” 

“I ain’t goin’ to school, I ain’t! Oh, my 
cracky, ain’t I glad!” and Jimmy stood on his 
head as a final expression of his satisfaction 
with the change in his plans. 

Soon after this important decision had been 
made Mrs. Banner was sitting by her window, 
on a June afternoon, with an open letter from 
Mark in her hand. It said : 

Dearest Mother: — 

I have a plan which I want to submit 
first of all to you. Our school is having 
a successful year, and I have come to know 
the families of many of our boys. There 
is a growing sentiment here in favor of 
the higher education of Females (I can see 
Doris stamp her foot), and some of the influen- 
tial men of the place propose starting a Fe- 
male Academy. They have consulted the teach- 


116 


DORIS 


ers of our Academy freely about the matter. 
One of them invited me to dinner yesterday, 
and we had a long talk about it. I told him that 
I knew of an excellent teacher, a graduate of 
Mt. Holyoke, an assistant teacher there at pres- 
ent, whom I thought they would be able to get. 

“That is just the thing/ ’ he said emphati- 
cally; “if we have a school for training female 
minds, we want a thoroughly trained teacher 
and high ideals. What is her name?” 

“I am afraid you will think me wanting in 
modesty,” I answered; “her name is Doris 
Banner, my own sister. Aside from our rela- 
tionship, I know her to be a thorough student 
and a successful teacher.” 

“Better and better!” he exclaimed; “we 
know then that she is a lady, and has had ex- 
cellent home training; but if as many attend as 
we think now, more than one teacher will be 
needed. Do you know of any one whom you can 
recommend as an assistant?” 

I did know, and answered immediately: 

“My sister has a friend, also a graduate of 
Mt. Holyoke, who will, I feel sure, be at liberty 
next year. They would work well together, as 
they have known each other from childhood. 
Her name is Miss Keren Winthrop.” 

He seemed much pleased, took the names and 
said he would bring them before the rest of the 


UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 117 


committee. I suggested that if they considered 
the proposition favorably they should write at 
once to Mi>. Holyoke and ask the teachers there 
for their opinion as to the fitness of the young 
ladies for the position. I asked him also not 
to use my name in the matter, except with the 
committee. 

Of course Doris and Keren must know noth- 
ing of this at present. What I want to ask of 
you is this, dear mother : if this arrangement is 
brought about, will you come to Barnwell and 
make a home for us three! I am sure we can 
find a comfortable house ; there is one I have in 
mind, which is to be vacant in September. If 
you consent, I will get the refusal of it until 
things are settled. I have little doubt of the 
outcome here, and I believe Doris and Keren 
are just the teachers for the place. We can 
bring some things from home, as Amelia will 
not need them all for her family, and furnish 
the rest here. Do not deny me this, dear 
mother. 

Your devoted son, 

Mark West Banner. 

The plan met with general approval, and as 
Kerens loving task was ended and Doris free 
to choose her work for the coming year, they 
accepted the unanimous invitation of the au- 


118 


DORIS 


tliorities in Barnwell to open a Female Acad- 
emy on the first of October. Mrs. Banner 
gladly consented to Mark’s request, and the 
middle of September found them comfortably 
settled in their new home. 

The principal and her assistant were plan- 
ning a school of thorough scholarship, modelled, 
so far as possible, on Mt. Holyoke lines. In this 
school, as in many others of that day, and in 
those of days long after, Miss Lyon’s influence 
was as a living presence. 

“How would she decide this or arrange 
that?” Doris and Keren constantly asked each 
other. 

Mark gave his help as the curriculum was ar- 
ranged, and it came as nearly as that stage of 
public opinion admitted to that of a first-class 
boys’ school. 

“I want Greek for my female minds,” as- 
serted Doris; “don’t you think we may have 
it?” 

“Not yet,” said Keren and Mark; “you know 
even Miss Lyon had to wait for that.” 

“Yes,” sighed Doris resignedly; “but if a 
girl wants private lessons she shall have them, 
shades of Mr. Mather notwithstanding.” 

With a merry twinkle in her eye she stamped 
her foot like the Doris of old. 

To the dwellers at the farm came this char- 


UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 119 


acteristic letter, giving a vivid picture of the 
new regime: 


Barnwell, Mass., Oct. 10, 1851. 
Dear Sister Amelia, Brother Charles, and 
Twinnies Two: — 

This half of the Banner family sends greet- 
ing to the other half. Just as soon as you can 
you must drive over to see this half. Mother 
says that Thanksgiving is a sort of breathing 
place in the year, and that you must plan to 
spend it with us, bringing a gobbler from the 
farm. No other would taste right. 

I cannot tell you how old and dignified I feel 
to be the head of this Academy for the higher 
education of the Female mind. But I am, and 
dignified I have to be, and amazingly dignified 
I am, Keren says. She defers to me in school 
hours in perfect manner, but I must confess 
that she takes it out of me afterward. I have 
turned all the mathematics over to her, and a 
fine teacher she is. I insist on Latin as soon 
as a pupil has a fair knowledge of English, and 
I have a class in French also. 

We have worked out a regular course of 
study, and have submitted it to the Committee 
(spelled with a big C). Mark helped us to get 
it into shape, and we made it as nearly like the 
curriculum in his Academy, for training the 


120 


DORIS 


Male mind, as we dared. Strange to say, they 
accepted it without a protest. They are really 
intelligent gentlemen, some of them college 
bred, or this school would not have been in ex- 
istence. They have treated us very nicely. 

We are living on school time, and mother 
seems to enjoy it. We have a pleasant house, 
not fully furnished, as you know; but we are 
quite comfortable, and have arranged the work 
so that mother is not at all overtaxed. We have 
a large air-tight wood stove in the “settin’ 
room” ( vide Mr. Jones), with a pipe running 
up into a drum in the room overhead. The 
room over the kitchen (Mark’s) is heated in 
like manner. Mother has a warm little bed- 
room off the kitchen. Mark’s room extends 
over it, and he has put a bell at the head of 
his bed, with a strong cord running down to 
the head of her bed, so that she can call him in 
an instant. Mother prefers this to going up- 
stairs to sleep. Mark’s duty is to see that there 
is plenty of wood in the house for the fires, and 
“chunks” for the air-tight stove. The fire is 
never to go out in the latter in cold weather. 
Keren and I see that the house is in order in 
the morning before we leave, and dear mother 
has such smoking-hot home dinners when we 
come at noon. 

“Mother,” said Mark, this noon, “the best 





MARY LYON CHAPEL AND ADMINISTRATION BUILDING. 











UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 121 


boarding in the world is not like home,” and 
so said we all. Mother’s face beamed and we 
were a lively family as we sat down to eat the 
good things she had provided. 

After supper mother has nothing to do but 
enjoy herself, and what do you think! She is 
going to review her Virgil, and take a regular 
course of English reading that Mark has 
planned for her. Isn’t she clever! There is 
not another like her. We send out our washing 
in the middle of the week, and iron on Satur- 
day morning. There! you can tell what we 
are doing any hour of the day, and as we know 
pretty well what you are doing, we are not so 
very far apart, after all. 

We are much interested in Jimmy’s plan, and 
were not surprised to learn from your letter 
that he was really learning his two lessons 
“good,” as he promised. Mother and Mark 
say that is the very best plan for a boy like him, 
bless his dear, honest, mischievous heart! He 
is and will be as true as steel all his life. 

Is dear Johnny as much of a “book wurrum” 
as ever! Well, he cannot help it, and I know 
you are not sorry. He is a born student, and 
there is no use trying to make anything else out 
of him. He will not shirk life’s duties, either; 
he is too true for that. You see I have great 
faith in my nephews. 


122 


BORIS 


So the Banner family is doing well all ’round, 
and as my heart is at rest about them, I must 
sleep and knit up ‘ ‘ my ravelled sleeve of care . 9 9 

Always yours in sisterly and aunt-erly affec- 
tion, Doris. 

The cycle of the year swung around — au- 
tumn, winter, spring, summer — bringing at last 
the close of school to teachers and pupils of the 
Barnwell Academies. It had been a happy year 
of work and study and of mutual helpfulness 
in the Barnwell home, and had brought rich 
fruitage of mental and spiritual growth to the 
dwellers there. 

The Female Academy had proved successful 
beyond the hope of its patrons, and a substan- 
tial number of new pupils were enrolled for the 
coming year. The committee waited on Doris 
and her assistant, after the exercises of the 
closing day, and declared, in the words of their 
spokesman : 

“We have come to thank you, ladies, for the 
work you have done, not only for your pupils, 
but also in demonstrating to our citizens that 
the female mind is capable of high culture. We 
are most happy to have our own daughters un- 
der your care, and will use our influence to in- 
duce others to attend the Academy. You may 
count on our help in any way, as you may need 


UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 123 


it. We predict for you large success, and again 
express our appreciation of your work.” 

The family rejoiced together, and settled 
down for a rest before undertaking vacation 
projects. Doris was singing happily as she 
spread the supper table late one afternoon. 
She had established her mother by a front 
window with a book in her hand, and playfully 
ordered her to be quiet until she was called. 
Absorbed in her reading, Mrs. Banner did not 
notice that the door opened and shut softly un- 
til she lifted her eyes and saw Keren and Mark 
standing before her. 

“Mother,” said Mark, “I have asked Keren 
to be my wife, and she has consented, providing 
you are willing. Will you receive her as a 
daughter, and give us your blessing?” 

He knelt at her feet and laid his head in her 
lap. She bent over him and laid her hand, with 
a gesture of inexpressible tenderness, on his 
fair hair: 

‘ ‘ My precious boy, with all my heart. ’ ’ 

She turned to Keren, standing with drooping 
head beside her : 

“My daughter!” 

Keren knelt by Mark’s side, and felt a 
mother’s hand in caress on her bowed head. 

“Bless you, my children ; you make me happy 
indeed.” 


124 


DORIS 


As the lovers rose from tlieir knees the 
mother stood beside them, and Mark drew her 
to him. He threw an arm around Keren and 
held them both in his close embrace. 

‘‘Was ever a man so blessed as IV ’ he 
whispered. 

“Supper’s ready — ready — ready,’ ’ sang a 
clear voice. 4 4 Come, mother, come. Where are 
the rest?” 

Doris stopped short as she threw open the 
door, comprehending the situation at once. 

4 4 Do you want a new sister, Crinkles?” asked 
Mark. 

4 4 Of course I do, you stupid boy. You need 
not think I have been blind as a bat. I knew 
she would be my sister some day, and I’m as 
glad as I can be ; but if you think you are sur- 
prising me, you are greatly mistaken. Why, 
I have known it ever since I can remember. 
But come to supper; those hot biscuits will be 
cold if we stand mooning here any longer.” 


CHAPTER X 
FORESHADOWING 

K EREN and Mark were to have a year of 
betrothal before their marriage, and the 
opening of the next school term found the fam- 
ily happily settled for their work. 

“ Happy dreams do sometimes come true,” 
exclaimed Doris one evening, as she watched 
the installing of a fine piano in their sitting- 
room. “This is the one final, perfecting touch 
to our home. Mother and I can sing soprano, 
Keren has a beautiful second and Mark’s tenor 
is superb. If we had a bass, there would be 
nothing wanting to a quartet. But we have 
enough to be gloriously thankful for. Where 
is that book of duets, Keren? I feel like a little 
girl again, almost too happy to live.” 

She seized Keren by the waist and whirled 
her around the room, bringing her breathless to 
the piano-stool. 

“There, Miss Teacher, you shall have the first 
play.” 

“If you can be quiet a moment, I have some- 
thing to tell you, Doris Banner,” remarked her 
brother, with mock gravity. “I am shocked at 
such undignified levity in the head of the Acad- 
125 


126 


DORIS 


emy for training female minds. What would 
your pupils say if they could see you ? ’ ’ 

4 ‘But they don’t. Now what have you to say, 
sir?” She laid a hand on each of his arms: 
‘ ‘ I will not let you go until you tell me. ’ ’ 

“Well, then, being under compulsion, I will 

say that my old room-mate at A , Robert 

Courtney, is coming here to fill the vacant pul- 
pit of the Congregational Church. He is one 
of the finest men I have ever known, and an 
excellent preacher. Why he refused a call to 
a Boston church and came to this poor parish, I 
do not know, but he is coming soon.” 

“That is interesting, and I am glad for your 
sake, and for our own, for that matter, if he is 
a good speaker; but I can’t see that your news 
fits this particular occasion of rejoicing,” re- 
marked Doris. 

“This is how it fits in. He has an excellent 
bass voice, and understands music well. Now, 
how about our quartet?” 

“That is fine. Of course he will come to see 
you?” 

“You may he sure of that, for he has never 
had a real home in his life. He used to look 
with longing eyes at me when my letters came 
from home.” 

“Why doesn’t he get married, then, and make 
a home of his own? That is the way for lonely 


FORESHADOWING 127 

men to do,” said Doris demurely, with an arch 
look at her brother. 

44 I suppose because he has not yet found the 
one incomparable woman, as I have,” answered 
Mark, drawing Keren’s hand within his arm. 
4 4 They are not plenty, and Courtney is very 
particular.” 

4 4 Well, I hope he will get suited in course of 
time. Mother,” called Doris, 4 4 come and have 
a sing before we go to bed.” 

The routine of life went steadily on, as with 
increasing earnestness these teachers went 
daily to their inspiring tasks. The weariness of 
the day was often forgotten as they gathered 
in the evening around the piano and four voices 
blended in rich harmony. Often Doris or Keren 
played with skilful touch, or performed a duet, 
as Mark and his mother, with Robert Courtney, 
listened in silence. 

The new minister was a frequent visitor, and 
fitted into the family life without a jar. He 
did not find an easy task as pastor of the weak- 
ened church, and to no one could he confide his 
perplexities as to Mrs. Banner. Her great 
mother heart went out to the lonely young man, 
and a warm and beautiful friendship speedily 
ripened between them. Her keen insight into 
human nature, and clear mental attitude toward 
life in all its phases, made her an invaluable 


128 


DORIS 


counsellor. The lovely maturity of her rich 
womanly nature, her restfulness, gave him a 
sense of security and peace in her presence, 
such as he had never known. 

“I don’t wonder you are the man you are, 
Banner,” he exclaimed one day as they were 
walking together, “with such a mother and 
sisters. And now the Fates have added an- 
other gift — a woman’s heart all your own. If 
you were any one else, chum, I should say you 
didn’t deserve it. Do you remember your 
father at all?” 

‘ ‘ I have only a dim memory of his laying his 
hand on my head and saying, ‘Be a man and 
take care of your mother.’ I was too young 
to know then what he meant, but it has influ- 
enced me all my life, and I have felt a peculiar 
care over Doris. Amelia is several years older 
than I, and the best of sisters, a comfort to us 
all. Our family relations have been singularly 
pleasant. Courtney, I do not deserve it,” said 
Mark simply; “life is better to me than my 
fairest dreams. Then I have you, old fellow, as 
a brother, a part of my daily life. That means, 
as you know, very much to me. No, I do not 
deserve it all.” 

They walked on in silence until they came to 
the Banner home, and, with a warm hand- 
clasp, parted without a word. 


FORESHADOWING 


129 


One bright winter day, the school week ended, 
the village of Barnwell lay under a canopy of 
snow. The morning sun had risen on untracked 
roads and pathways. The sheltering hills held 
their sleeping life close-folded under a coverlet. 
In the silent woods hemlock and spruce bore, 
in perfect white above their shining green, an 
unmarred beauteous burden in the windless air. 

The merriest of winter sounds floated out in 
the afternoon sunshine: 

“The tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 

From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells, — 

From the jingling and tinkling of the 
bells.” 

A sleigh-load of laughing girls from the Fe- 
male Academy had claimed Doris and Keren 
after school hours, and as Mark walked home- 
ward Robert Courtney joined him. 

“Hold on there, chum; I am going your way. 
I saw your sister and Miss Winthrop with a 
sleigh full of girls, and as I want to see you and 
your mother alone I thought I would take this 
time.” 

“What is up, Courtney, anything special!” 

“Yes; wait and I will tell you.” 


130 


BORIS 


“Well, here we are; there is mother; come 
in.” He waved his hand to the watcher in the 
window and opened the gate. 

“Queen mother,” said Mark, “here is Mr. 
Robert Courtney, who says that he has some 
special business with us. Can you give him 
audience?” 

“Yes, indeed; he is always welcome. What 
is it, Robert?” 

“It is serious business for me, but it will not 
take long to tell it. I love Doris. Are you both 
willing that I should try to win her for my 
wife ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Banner’s face grew white under her 
snowy hair, and Mark groaned aloud. 

“What is the matter?” cried Robert Court- 
ney in alarm. “Do you feel that I am not 
worthy? I will withdraw at once, if you say 
so ; but I can never love another woman . 9 ’ 

4 4 1 know of no one to whom I could so gladly 
give her, but I fear you are too late,” said her 
mother sorrowfully. 

“I did not know that she was promised to 
any one.” 

4 4 Courtney,” exclaimed Mark, with a white, 
set face, 4 4 this is enough to make a man grind 
his teeth in rage.” 

4 4 For heaven’s sake, Banner, explain your- 
self.” 


FORESHADOWING 


131 


“Sit down and I will tell you. Doris is most 
sweet and reasonable about everything in this 
world but one. She imagines that she is in love 
with an old schoolmate, who has been writing 
to her for years. He has never definitely asked 
her to marry him, but he probably will before 
long. She feels that she belongs to John Allen 
— a puppy, a donkey, a half-educated fool. He 
is not a bad man, nor is there character enough 
in him to make a good man, as I have told her 
many times. No one can convince her, how- 
ever, and we have to let her go her way . 1 9 

“That is one of the crucifixions of mother- 
hood,” said Mrs. Banner sadly, “to see a be- 
loved child make a grievous mistake, go blindly 
on to certain misery, and be powerless to pre- 
vent the tragedy. That is just what our little 
girl seems bound to do. She is held by some 
mistaken sense of loyalty, and believes him to 
be everything that he is not. I fear we cannot 
save her.” 

“Courtney,” said Mark, breaking the long si- 
lence that had settled upon them, “I will talk 
with Doris to-night. She is not yet definitely 
promised, I know, though she feels herself 
morally bound — mistakenly so. Perhaps when 
she knows that a man like you, whom any 
woman can be proud to revere, loves her with a 
great and honorable love, the scales will fall 


132 


DORIS 


from her eyes. John Allen has touched only 
the surface of her heart, and she does not 
realize that he has no power to stir the depths 
of her noble womanhood. I sometimes think 
that only a great sorrow could bring her to her 
senses. God knows I would spare her that, for 
my little sister is very dear to me.” 

Robert Courtney turned from the gate of his 
friend in heaviness of soul. He had seen, 
through a door ajar, the light of Heaven. He 
was standing now in outer darkness. The door 
to love and home and happiness seemed for- 
ever closed to him. He had no hope that Mark’s 
pleading would avail to give him an opportunity 
to win the love of the only woman in the world 
for him. There are many men of many minds 
and diverse kinds; for this man, having loved 
once, however fruitlessly, he could never love 
again. 

“ Doris,” said Mark, after the evening meal, 
“I want to talk with you. Will you come up to 
my room for a while?” 

“Yes, indeed; I will be there in ten minutes. 
I have something to tell you, too. ’ ’ 

Mark had lighted the lamp on his study-table 
and drawn the shades when she entered. 

“What a disorderly fellow you are!” she ex- 
claimed. “I wish you would let me clear up 
that table; you strew your papers around dis- 


FORESHADOWING 


133 


gracefully. Just wait until your wife begins 
to manage you. Now what is it? Til save mine 
until the last.” 

“Sit down here, sis.” He drew an easy chair 
to the table. 

“What is the matter, Mark? Tell me 
quickly; you look as grave as a judge.” 

“Doris, little sister, Robert Courtney was 
here to-day.” 

“That is surely nothing unusual; he is here 
many days.” 

“He came to ask mother and me if we were 
willing to have him try to win your love, and 
to ask your hand in marriage. He loves you 
deeply, as not every man can love. He is noble 
and true, a man whose name any woman might 
be proud to bear. Will you consider the matter 
carefully?” 

“But, Mark, you know I cannot ; there is John 
Allen,” cried Doris, with flushing cheeks. 

“Have you ever promised to marry John 
Allen ? Have you ever told him that you loved 
him?” 

“No; but I have written to him all these 
years, and I do love him. He has a fine and 
sensitive nature. It is a grief to me that you 
and mother do not like him. I feel always that 
you will when you know him better. This is 
what I want to tell you. He has asked me to 


134 


DORIS 


ask you and mother if you are willing to have 
me marry him, as soon as he gets a charge, for 
he is going to enter the ministry / ’ 

4 4 Why doesn’t he ask himself, like a man, 
the ” 

4 4 Mark, please — here is his letter; that is 
the best way to make you understand. Read it 
and you will know how honorable he is . 9 9 

Her brother took the letter with ill-concealed 
annoyance, and read : 

My dear Doris : — 

The time has come to which I have long 
looked forward, when I feel that I can ask you 
to be my wife. I have at last decided to enter 
the ministry. I might as well do that as any- 
thing, and I must do something to earn a liveli- 
hood. I have been at home, as you know, ever 
since I left college, trying to decide on my fu- 
ture course. In the meantime I have read some 
theology with my father, to occupy my time. 
He insists now on an immediate decision. I de- 
cided to-day, and write you at once. Of course 
we cannot marry until I get a church, but I have 
no fear that I cannot get a good one as soon 
as I have an opportunity to preach before a few 
congregations. I shall also have my father’s 
influence to help me. 

You alone know how refined and sensitive my 


FORESHADOWING 


135 


nature is. I have always felt that your mother 
and brother were not cordial in their feelings 
toward me, and I shrink from writing to them 
about this matter. Will you spare me this trial, 
and ask them yourself? But you are of age and 
your own mistress. You do not need their con- 
sent, though I know you would not like to marry 
even me without it. 

I quote, with a little change, from a poem 
which I wrote for you long ago. I have not 
said as much as this since then, but I feel that 
you will appreciate it now : 

“Te semper amavi. Te semper amaho.” 

Let me know your decision soon. 

Semper fides, JoHN . 

Mark flung the letter to the floor with a ges- 
ture of unutterable scorn, and getting up with 
an energy that sent his chair reeling behind 
him, began to pace the floor with long and hasty 
strides. 

“Doris Banner, have you lost your senses? 
Can’t you see his utter selfishness, his lack of 
character? He might as well preach as do any- 
thing else forsooth ! Has he no sense of the holi- 
ness of the calling, no conviction of duty? 
Will he spare his precious feelings by asking 
you to do what he has not the manliness to do 
for himself? I beg of you, by the love of our 


136 


BORIS 


childhood, by our long years of close fellowship, 
to write him an emphatic refusal. I beg of you, 
as your brother and as your natural guardian, 
to have nothing to do with him, except in the 
way of friendship, if you care to have a friend- 
ship with such a ” 

“Mark, Mark,” pleaded Doris, dismayed by 
his vehemence, “you do not understand him, 
neither does mother. I showed the letter to her 
this afternoon, and begged her not to tell you. 
I wanted to do that myself. ’ ’ 

“No wonder she was white as a sheet and ate 
almost no supper.” 

“Don’t you see that I am bound to him, even 
though no promise has passed between us, 
though he has never given me the caress of a 
lover, in the few times we have seen each other 
since we were schoolmates ? ’ ’ 

“No, I do not see; neither would you if you 
were not absolutely blinded by a false sense of 
honor. You have a clear enough mind about 
most things, but you seem to see this — this all- 
important question — through a fog that com- 
pletely distorts your vision. Of course he never 
offered you a caress. He knew well enough that 
you would not allow it until he had the right. 
Any man knows that, even if he is a fool. You 
think you love him. You love an ideal you have 
formed of him, that is as unlike him as light is 


FORESHADOWING 137 

unlike darkness. Believe me, Doris, you do not 
love him at all.” 

4 4 Mark, Mark, don ’t you see how you are hurt- 
ing me!” cried Doris. She had risen to her 
feet and was standing before him. “Won’t you 
love me any longer if I do not say no?” 

He threw his arms wide, and Doris rushed to 
their refuge. She laid her head on his broad 
shoulder and sobbed as he had never seen her 
sob before. He held her close and whispered : 

“Little sister, little sister, I shall love you 
always. Never, never forget that, whatever 
happens. I only want to save you from making 
a terrible mistake, to save you from needless 
suffering, certain and life-long. Our mother is 
breaking her heart over it for the same reason.” 

“But don’t you both want me to do what I 
think is right f 9 9 sobbed Doris. 

“Yes, but we want to help you to see the right, 
to clear away the mist that blinds you.” 

She threw her arms around his neck and laid 
her wet face to his. “It kills me to hurt you 
all, but I must be true.” 

She fled to her room and, hastily preparing 
for bed, laid her tired head on her pillow. All 
night she lay staring into darkness with wide, 
sleepless eyes. Over and over she whispered, 
until her brain reeled, “I love him, I love him. 
I must be true, I must be true.” 


138 


DORIS 


“Poor Courtney, poor little Doris,’ * sighed 
Mark, and went to find his mother. 

“It is of no use, dear mother,” he said ten- 
derly; “she cannot see; she thinks there is no 
other way, though she is breaking her heart 
over grieving us. She has gone to her room for 
the night and we must not disturb her.” 

“We will leave our darling in God’s hands, 
my son. Surely He is not unmindful of her. 
We will hope that something may yet occur to 
show her the mistake. What should I do with- 
out you, Mark?” 

“You do not have to do without me, mother.” 

“No, thank God, thank God. I believe He 
will never ask me to live in this world without 
you, my precious boy.” 

Doris, as she tossed on her sleepless pillow, 
had no foreshadowing of the price she would 
pay for cleared vision, and the faint gray dawn 
found her still whispering, “I love him, I love 
him; I must be true.” 

When nine o ’clock came on the following morn- 
ing, and Doris had not yet appeared, her mother 
went to her room, tapped gently and listened. 
Hearing no sound, she opened the door softly, 
to find her daughter sleeping heavily from ex- 
haustion, with traces of tears on her cheeks. 
With noiseless step Mrs. Banner crossed the 
room and darkened the windows, murmuring to 


FORESHADOWING 


139 


herself, “How I would spare you even to the 
laying down of my life, but I cannot. Oh, the 
agonizing helplessness of a mother’s love, my 
baby, my baby!” 

Mark stood at the door, as that eventful day 
was drawing to a close, about to leave the house. 
He had not seen Doris since she left his room 
the night before. Now she came swiftly down 
the stairs. 

“Mark, will you mail this for me, and also 
give this to Mr. Courtney? I want you to read 
it before he sees it.” 

There was a pathetic appeal in her beautiful 
eyes that smote her brother to the heart. 

“Your answer is?” he asked gently. 

“My answer is yes. I love him. I must be 
true.” She clung to his arm, her pale lips 
quivering. 

“You need not fear, Doris; we will never 
refer to the subject again in any way that will 
give you pain.” 

He bent his head to her rippling hair for a 
moment, and was gone. His eyes were dim as 
he opened the unsealed letter and read : 

Dear Mr. Courtney: — 

Mother and Mark have told me of your re- 
quest, and I want to tell you that I feel greatly 
honored. I have the highest respect for you, 
and shall always cherish the thought that you 


140 


DORIS 


believed me worthy of loving. But I feel that 
my affection and devotion are for another, 
whom I have long loved. I know there must be 
a woman, whom God will some day send you, 
who will give you her whole heart, and whom 
you will love and cherish as your wife. 

May I hope that you will grant me this re- 
quest! Please come to our house as freely and 
as frequently as you have done. Any restraint 
that you and I may feel will soon wear away. 
Do not, I beg, for mother’s sake and Mark’s, 
and for the sake of us all as a family, let this 
make any difference in our pleasant friendship. 
Think of me as a sister and as a friend. As 
such I am, 

Most cordially yours, 

Doris Banner. 

And thus Doris Banner placed her rich, cul- 
tured young womanhood on the altar of an in- 
tense, ignoble egotism — a futile sacrifice. 


CHAPTER XI 
SUNSHINE AND SHADE 

“T HAVE something to say to the family 

X this evening, ’ ’ said Mark as they sat at 
dinner in apple-blossom time. 

“Why not say it now and have done with it! 
What have we done individually and collectively 
that we have to be brought before a Star Cham- 
ber !” questioned Doris, with something of her 
old-time spirit. 

“Nothing serious; in fact, nothing at all. I 
want Robert to be here, too. I’ll ask him to 
drop in.” 

“You tantalizing boy. Well, we have no time 
to waste on you ; Keren and I must get back to 
our female minds.” 

The months following Doris’s decision had 
perceptibly thinned the sweet oval of her cheek 
and stolen much of its delicate bloom. On the 
other hand, Keren’s betrothal had heightened 
her charm and brought new beauty to her face. 
Doris carried a burden whose weight she tried 
in vain to conceal. Keren rested on the strong 
heart that loved her, and all care fell from her 
shoulders. True to Mark’s promise, no word of 
reproach was ever uttered to Doris, no sign 
m 


142 


DORIS 


of disapproval given, but they all felt the 
change in their light-hearted darling, and longed 
for the merry laughter and irrepressible spirits 
of other days. She was very sweet and thought- 
ful for them all, but she was often preoccupied 
and sad. 

“If I were a savage,’ ’ Mark had said one 
day to Kobert Courtney, “I would make John 
Allen’s life so wretched he would flee to the 
ends of the earth, and never come back. Doris 
is so changed that one would hardly know her, 
and we can do nothing to help her.” 

The man who loved her with a deathless love 
was silent. 

They were all gathered in the “keeping 
rpom” on the evening of the day on which our 
chapter opens, around an open fire, for the air 
was cool. The light flames leaped and glowed 
as they waited in silence for Mark, each in a 
separate world of thought, at star distances 
from each other perhaps, though they might 
have clasped hands without a stir. 

“Don’t light the lamp, Mark,” said his 
mother as he came in; “the firelight is so 
pleasant. We can hear what you have to say 
without it. Now what have you to tell us?” 

“Simply this: I have been requested to go 

back to A as an assistant teacher in Greek 

and Latin, and have decided to accept the offer. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADE 


143 


That means, of course, that I must resign my 
work here at once, so that they may fill my 
place for next year. I received the letter only 
this morning, and must confess that I am sur- 
prised, but nothing could be more to my 
liking.” 

“This is a pleasure, indeed, my son,” said 
Mrs. Banner. 4 4 1 am deeply gratified that they 
want you to come back. Aren’t you?” 

4 4 Yes, mother.” 

A flash of fire lighted his face, and she saw 
his grave, sweet smile and his gray eyes look- 
ing into hers. 

4 4 Well, Buddy,” said Doris, 44 I have always 
believed you would amount to something, and 
you see I was right. I am as proud and glad 
as I can be.” 

4 4 Chum, that is just the thing,” said Robert 
Courtney; 44 I am not at all surprised. Your 
work as an educator has not gone for nothing. 
I am selfish enough to say for myself that I 
don’t like it at all, but there is nothing for me 
to do but to stay here and peg away without 
you.” 

4 4 You would not run away from duty, in any 
event, would you, Robert?” 

4 4 No, I would not, Mrs. Banner. I believe 
you realize that, and I could not, with you for 
my monitor and inspiration.” 


144 


DORIS 


Keren laid her hand for an instant in Mark’s 
outstretched palm, and said nothing. 

We find a record of this happy event in 
Doris’s journal: 

Barnwell , June 2, 1852. We are all so proud 
of Mark. The Academy authorities are very re- 
luctant to give him up, but he received an 
urgent invitation and has decided to go back to 
his Alma Mater to assist in teaching Greek and 
Latin. I know what an influence for good he 
will have among the students. I realize, as 
I grow older, through what struggles he must 
have reached his victory, and how he has bat- 
tled with the powers of darkness before coming 
off the conqueror that he is. He has stood be- 
tween me and the world in father’s place, as 
well as his own. What do I not owe to him ! 

Our second year in the Female Academy is 
drawing to a close. The work has not come up 
to our ideals, but I feel that it has been good 
work. We carry out Miss Lyon’s plans as far 
as we can, and in many of the difficult places 
that every teacher meets we try to decide what 
her method would be, how she would control 
this rebellious pupil, or inspire that indifferent 
one. I often refer to my Mt. Holyoke note- 
books in the Friday afternoon talks, and am 
able to give Miss Lyon’s own words for inspira- 
tion and help. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADE 


145 


Keren and I work in beautiful harmony. 
What shall I do without her! She has devel- 
oped a remarkable gift for interpreting the 
Bible lessons, and she often takes Miss Lyon’s 
outlines, preserved in her note-book, and ex- 
plains them in her own happy way. The pupils 
know this, and even here our beloved teacher, 
“ being dead, yet speaketh.” 

Bellfield, August 10, 1852 . Dear Juna, once 
more I write in my own little room at the farm. 
It seems a long, long time since I stood at the 
window, looking toward the east, and named it 
Peace. I remember mother said: “ Peace 
comes from within, child; don’t forget that.” 

We cannot really know peace, I suppose, until 
we have known deep unrest; and yet, as I look 
over the years since then, those days seem to 
me to have been the very heart of peace. Deep 
unrest I surely have as my daily (and nightly) 
experience, but peace I do not know. Doesn’t 
it seem strange, when you have decided a great 
question as you felt you must, or be dishonor- 
able ; when you have followed the best prompt- 
ing of your heart and your real affection, as you 
thought to be right, that there should be given 
to you, as your daily portion, a pain, an ap- 
prehension, an undefined terror, which is be- 
yond your power to control and which you can- 
not reason away! Do I doubt, Juna, that I love 


146 DORIS 

John Allen? No, I will not doubt it. I will be 
true. 

Keren is so lovely in her loving. Every one 
can see her added charm. Though a tall and 
stately woman, with wonderful eyes and hair, 
I never heard her called a beautiful woman 
until this last year, but she surely is. She is 
bending over her wedding clothes at this very 
moment, in the Barnwell home, stitching 
dreams into every seam. Auntie Bay is stay- 
ing with her, helping to get ready for the wed- 
ding. It will be held here at the farm, just be- 
fore the school year opens. I have written to 
Mt. Holyoke for an assistant in Kerens place, 
but cannot hope to find one like her. Three 
names have been sent me, but I do not have to 
decide just yet, and I am glad, for I don’t feel 
equal to it. 

Have I changed so much, Juna? Jimmy 
shook my hand like a pump-handle the night we 
came home, and shouted: “Halloa, Aunt 
Doris; glad to see you; but you don’t 
look as if you had had enough to eat. You 
just wait, I’ll ’tend to you.” Then, when no 
one was looking, he gave me a bear’s hug and 
a kiss. 

Dear Johnny was swinging ahead with our 
carpet-bag and bandbox, and mother was ab- 
sorbed in Amelia. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADE 


147 


Amelia persists in treating me as if I were 
sick — she is the dearest sister in the world — 
but I am not sick, Juna ; I am not sick, but tired, 
tired in my very soul. “I love him; I must be 
true,” is my watchword. It should have a joy- 
ful sound. Oh, why can’t I make it sound joy- 
ful? 

Mark is at A making everything ready 

for his new work. He and Keren will board for 
a while, perhaps for the first year, but they 
are looking forward to having a home of their 
own as soon as possible. Mother and I will feel 
lost without them, but we do not want to stand 
in the way of their happiness. They are not, 
like most betrothed couples, oblivious of every 
one else, but are thoughtful for us all, and make 
us really feel that their marriage will make no 
difference in the close friendship we have known 
as a family. We have an added joy, for Keren 
is a rich gift to us as well as to him. 

Aug. 15. John has been to see me. I was 
glad Mark was not at home, because there is 
such an antagonism between them. Must I al- 
ways dread to have them meet? Mother, 
Amelia and brother Charles were very kind to 
us both. John has not yet succeeded in get- 
ting a suitable charge, so that our marriage can- 
not take place for some time. His father has 
three preaching places, and John preaches at 


148 


DORIS 


the small, outside churches on alternate Sun- 
days. He is having the trial of many refined, 
sensitive souls, and feels that he is not under- 
stood and appreciated. Even his father does 
not approve of his efforts, and hints, John says, 
that his small salary is not enough for two. 
John says that I am his only comfort, and that 
the thought of me helps him to be patient in his 
trial. How glad I am that I have not failed him, 
and that I could say to him, as I have often said 
to myself : “I love you ; I will be true. 9 ’ 

I was very tired when he went away, because 
he would not let me be out of his sight for a 
moment, except when I was in my own room. 
I was glad to observe mother’s strict command 
of my girlhood, that no daughter of hers could 
entertain a gentleman caller after ten o’clock. 
He thought it was foolish for a young woman 
of my age to feel bound to obey it, but I told 
him that while mother would not think of en- 
forcing it, I preferred to do what I knew would 
please her. (Wasn’t I glad of the excuse, 
Juna?) 

“That is because you love her better than 
you do me,” John said. I told him that a 
mother and a lover inspired very different 
kinds of loving, and he had to be content with 
that, or at least to be quiet about it. Of course 
when we are married he will not be so exacting. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADE 


149 


When he went away he insisted that I should 
write to him every day. He said that he should 
not be able to write me so often, but that he felt 
he needed my letters for his comfort. I would 
not promise, for it did not seem a reasonable 
arrangement. He is going to make more effort 
to get a church of his own, but says that he will 
not take a parish where his talents and educa- 
tion are not appreciated. So, Juna, I shall not 
make my wedding finery for some time to come. 

Aug. 16 . Mark came last night, sooner than 
we expected him. Mother and I were sitting 
at the front door when we saw him coming 
’round the bend of the road. He waved his 
hand, and I ran to meet him, as I have done 
many times before. Mother hurried to the gate, 
and the twins came rushing after me. They 
are not quite so savage as they used to be, and 
Jimmy seized his carpet-bag, Johnny his bun- 
dle, and we went on to find mother and Amelia 
at the gate waiting. 

‘ 4 Are you tired, Mark?” I asked, as he walked 
more slowly than usual. 

“Yes,” he answered; “but a few days at the 
old farm will set me all right. There is no place 
quite so good as this, is there?” he said as he 
greeted mother and Amelia. Mother looked at 
him anxiously. 

“Come right in, my son; you look spent. 


150 DORIS 

Will you have a cup of tea and something to eat 
before supper !” 

“ Perhaps I will. The heat has been great 
to-day, and rather interfered with my appetite 
at noon.” 

But he ate very little, Juna ; and mother came 
to Amelia and me with an anxious note in her 
voice and a worried look in her eyes. 

“ Girls ,’ 9 she said, “do you think Mark looks 
well! I am afraid he is more than tired; I do 
not like his complexion.” 

“Don’t be anxious, mother,” said Amelia. 
“We will make him rest, and soon nurse him 
back to his usual strength. If he is really ill, 
there is an excellent physician in the village 
now, and he can have the best of care.” 

We persuaded him to go to bed early, and 
insisted on his lying in the morning until quite 
rested. He did not get up until noon to-day, 
and tried to laugh us out of our worry, but 
he seems strangely unlike himself and looks 
gray and thin. 

“See here, folks, I shall be all right in a day 
or two. I am going to be as lazy as — as — what, 
Jimmy!” 

“As lazy as a woodchuck in winter, Uncle 
Mark . 9 ’ 

“Exactly so.” 

I found mother at the window of her room 


SUNSHINE AND SHADE 151 

this afternoon with her hand pressed to her 
heart. 

‘ 4 Daughter , 9 9 she said, with quickened breath, 
“I feel such a strange foreboding / 9 

I put my arms around her, and she dropped 
her head on my shoulder. Neither of us spoke 
for a long time, and then I whispered: “He 
will be better to-morrow.” 

It is so unlike mother to he despondent that 
Amelia and I are very anxious. If anything 
should happen to Mark — Mark — oh, Juna ! 


CHAPTER XII 
DARKNESS 

M ARK was full of plans for his college 
tasks, and he talked freely of them as 
the family gathered around his couch in the 
cool “ front room,” where he was quite willing 
to spend most of his time. 

“This lazy brother of yours, Charles, is a 
disgrace to the farm,” he said brightly. “Yes, 
a little rest will fix me all right; but I should 
like nothing better than to get out into the 
field with you. How the twins are coming on ! 
Jimmy is a born farmer, and you are wise to 
let him study at home and help you. You must 
let me have Johnny before long. I am glad you 
and Amelia intend to give him a college educa- 
tion. Don’t you think it a little strange that 
they develop so differently? They are manly 
fellows and do you great credit.” 

“Don’t you think you would better have a 
doctor, Mark?” asked his brother-in-law, as if 
he had not heard one word. 

“No, this weariness will soon pass away. In 
the meantime I have plenty to think about, and 
the time will not hang heavy on my hands.” 

The weariness did not pass, and Mrs. Ban- 
152 



FIELD MEMORIAL GATEWAY, MT. HOLYOKE 






















l 













DARKNESS 153 

ner found him one afternoon with flushed face 
and heavy eyes. 

“I have fever; mother, you may send for the 
doctor.” 

Thus began mortal conflict between life and 
death. Days tense with anxiety, and nights 
long with watching, followed in swift suc- 
cession. 

“He will have a hard siege, Mrs. Banner / 1 
said the kind physician, who was leaving noth- 
ing known to medical skill undone; “but his 
clean and temperate life will stand him in good 
stead now, and I believe he will recover. I 
should like to have a consulting physician.” 

“Anything, anything, doctor. Let nothing 
be left undone. Do you know how much my life 
is bound up in his? Do you know what his life 
means to us all?” 

“Yes, I know; and, God helping us, we will 
save him ; but he is very ill. His mind is per- 
fectly clear, and he is keeping oft delirium by 
sheer will power. I wish he would not fight so 
against it; the struggle weakens him.” 

Mrs. Banner went back to his bedside, a 
sword piercing her heart, but calm and alert. 
Mark lifted his heavy eyes. 

“Mother, if I die, can you bear it?” 

In that supreme hour her mother love did 
not fail him, and she answered quietly : 


154 


DORIS 


‘ 1 How is it with you, my son ; is it all right ? 9 9 

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “God knows 
best. ,, 

“I do not think I shall he long behind you, 
dear.” 

“I believe that.” 

“My precious boy.” 

“My mother.” He rested a little. 

“Mother, will you send for Keren? We were 
to be married soon. If she is willing I should 
like to be married now. If I live she can be 
with me ; if I go, I want to leave her with you 
as a daughter; she is so alone in the world. 
Will you do that for my sake?” 

“She is coming this afternoon, Mark. If she 
wishes it, Charles can make the necessary ar- 
rangements. But we hope that you will get 
well ; we believe that you will. Whatever comes, 
she shall be to me a dearly loved daughter.” 

In the early morning of the following day 
there was a strange and solemn wedding, where 
Life and Death joined hands over a fevered 
pillow; where a man, strong in his weakness, 
and a beautiful woman, brave in her courage, 
kneeling at his bedside, plighted their faith: 
“So long as ye both shall live.” 

The voice of the white-haired minister, who 
had known them both from childhood, trembled 
with deep emotion. He paused, and then, 


DARKNESS 


155 


with tender emphasis and uplifted hand, an- 
nounced, the solemn conclusion: “I pronounce 
you husband and wife, in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
Amen.” 

The doctor and Keren remained in the sick- 
room to watch through anxious hours. Doris, 
who had knelt by Keren’s side, a bridesmaid, 
white and still, fled to her room. 

“I cannot bear it, dear God. Thou wilt not 
take him from us. Spare him, oh, spare him, 
I pray ! 9 9 she pleaded in agony. 

A week passed, and then another. All that 
love and medical skill could do was without 
avail. The physician, who loved Mark as a 
brother, left, much of his practice to other hands, 
and day and night worked and watched over 
him, but in vain. A call from the eternal world 
summoned him away, and a strong and beauti- 
ful life, full of promise for the future, rich with 
the fruitage of its brief hour, went out into the 
everlasting years, to enter upon more exalted 
service. 

A veil seemed to fall between Doris and the 
other world, and a dark and terrible conflict 
came upon her soul. Was God good? Had He 
forgotten them? Did He care? Life without 
Mark! The very thought was more than she 
could bear, and it was long before faith, tri- 


156 DORIS 

umphant, discerned any brightness beyond the 
gloom. 

Robert Conrtney came swiftly to them, to 
help them bury their dead and share their 
grief. He gave his strong arm for Keren’s 
support, as they stood at the open grave, and 
his heart ached for the mother, bowing her 
white head in silence, and pale Doris, gazing 
with tearless eyes at the mound of broken earth, 
soon to cover, cover deep out of their sight, the 
fair young head they loved so well. 

Only to her journal, as to a close friend, could 
Doris fully reveal the depths of her sorrow. 
She did not forget that others were as deeply 
bereaved as she and needed her support and 
comfort. 

September 15, 1852. Was it a month, Juna, 
or a century ago, that I talked with you here? 
Perhaps if I try to write the terrible pressure 
in my head will grow less. I try to be as pa- 
tient as I can through these days of bitter grief, 
for each one of us has enough to bear, and I 
must not add to their sorrow. I may tell you 
all, without fear of giving pain. I did not know 
that one could suffer so and yet live. 

The sun itself seems darkened. Mark has 
been lying in his grave for a week, and yet I 
must go on living, and so must we all. We are 
all trying to comfort mother. She looks so wan 


DARKNESS 


157 


and thin, but she says that she has taken, for 
her staff of comfort, the words that Mark spoke, 
with steadfast faith, as he talked with her about 
dying : ‘ 4 God knows best. ’ ’ 

Dear Amelia’s idolized brother is gone, too, 
as well as mine. How she hung over him with 
tireless watching, able to soothe and comfort 
him always with her skilful nursing. What 
should we have done without brother Charles, 
who was everywhere with his clear judgment 
and helpful nands? He and Robert, whose 
sympathy has been priceless, have greatly en- 
deared themselves to us all. And the hoys! 
They had never come near to death before, and 
they went noiselessly about with awed faces, 
helping wherever they could. On that dreadful 
day, when the doctor told us, with tears that 
he did not try to conceal, that there was no 
hope, Amelia found them out in the barn, lying 
on the hay, sobbing as if their hearts would 
break. 

How can I write of Keren, in her bridal 
robes of black? Her white beauty frightens 
us. She has an exalted look, as if the real She 
were not here, as if she walked and talked with 
one unseen. Perhaps it may be so, but for me 
life is a pall of darkness, and he is gone — gone. 

I was alone with Mark one day in his partial 
delirium. He knew me perfectly. 


158 


DORIS 


“Little sister Doris,” lie whispered, “don’t 
forget, I shall love you always, in this world 
or in another. Never, never forget.” 

Again he looked up suddenly, as if he saw 
some one standing beside him. ‘ 4 Father, father, 
is that you? I have tried to take care of mother 
— tried — tried — ” his voice trailed wearily. 

Oh, Juna, how my heart was wrung! How 
have I lived, how do I live — live? We found 
Keren last night looking toward the hills, with 
her hands clasped tightly on her breast. 

“Mother, sisters,” she said softly, “I am a 
crowned queen. Mark loved, loves me. He 
loves me still ; nothing can change that. I bear 
his name. Neither death nor the grave could 
keep me from him. Whatever the years may 
bring, I am his wife.” 

We left her with love’s transfiguring glory in 
her face, strangely mingled with the infinite 
pain of her widowhood. 

Life stretches out before me ; the years ahead 
are long, long, so long, for I am young, and I 
am told that sorrow does not kill. I want to 
live for mother’s sake; she needs her children 
who are left more than ever. I will try, but 
if I could only feel sure that God cares. 

I shall never watch again for him to come 
’round the bend o’ the road. 

Sept . 20. I am dismayed to find that I have 


DARKNESS 


159 


scarcely thought of my lover during these dark 
days. I wrote him, begging pardon for my silence. 
I felt sure that he would understand our heavy 
grief, and realize how much of life was gone, 
how hard it was to gather up daily duties, and 
go on without faltering. I received this reply, 
so disappointing. Can it be that I cannot lean 
on him for comfort in this hour of need? 

My dear Doris : — 

I cannot understand how any grief can make 
a betrothed woman neglectful of her duty to 
her promised husband. He should be her first 
consideration. While I recognize the fact that 
your brother’s death is a loss to you and your 
family, and offer you my sympathy, I feel that 
if you love me as you ought, after your promise, 
you will see that you have been remiss in duty. 
I shall hope to find you more careful in the fu- 
ture. I know that my presence would be a com- 
fort to you, but I also feel that it is not wise to 
expose one’s self unnecessary to surroundings 
where there has been fatal fever, and will post- 
pone my visit until all possible danger is 
past. I do this partly for your sake, that you 
may not be called on to part with your prom- 
ised husband. You will never find me remiss 
in duty. 


Semper fides, 


John, 


160 


DORIS 


I have copied this letter, Juna, that I might 
search my heart as I wrote the words. “If you 
love me as you ought” I have repeated again 
and again. I wonder if that can be true. My 
brain is too weary to reason clearly now. 

A letter from Robert has brought evidence 
of his thoughtful care : 

Dear Friends: — 

I am thinking constantly of you all during 
these heavy days. My own grief can be only a 
little less than yours. Mark was a strong man, 
physically, intellectually, spiritually, and with 
it all he had as sweet a spirit as I have ever 
known. I cannot see why he was called away 
in his early manhood, but he has been promoted 
to some higher service, in which God needed 
just his qualifications. However long life may 
be for me, I shall sorely miss him until I see 
his face again — my brother, my best, my closest 
friend. 

I went before the committee, as Doris re- 
quested. They were most kind, and said they 
would write, suggesting that the Female Acad- 
emy open a month later than usual. I am glad 
you will have this respite. 

Let me serve you in any way possible, and 
think of me always as one with you in our com- 
mon sorrow. Robert Courtney. 


DARKNESS 161 

I have copied this, Juna, because it brought 
me comfort. 

Sept . 23. “How strange it is,” I said to 
mother last night, as we were all sitting to- 
gether in the twilight, ‘ 4 that one disaster brings 
others in its train, not so great but perplexing, 
as ‘When sorrows come, they come not as single 
spies, but in battalions.* I have a letter here 
telling me that the teacher who was to have 
been my assistant next year is sick with what 
promises to be a long illness. I must open the 
school the first of November, and do the best 
I can, but I cannot do it alone.” 

“Will you take me?” said Keren. 

“You dear Keren,” I exclaimed, “I had no 
idea that you would feel that you could go on.” 

“Why not I as well as you?” she asked 
gently. 

“You know that I would rather have you than 
any one in the world, dear sister,” I answered 
eagerly. Oh, what a load she has taken from 
me ! I asked mother if she would go back with 
us, and she answered: “Yes, dear, any time. 
Perhaps God is caring for us a little after all.” 

Mother came to me this morning with a new 
proposition, asking me how I would like to have 
Johnny with us next year. He has come to the 
place where he needs greater advantages than 
he has in the school here. He can go to the 


162 


DORIS 


Boys’ Academy and be a great help and com- 
fort to ns in the home. 

“But do you think Amelia and Charles will 
be willing to spare him just now?” I asked. 

“Yes, for his good and our comfort. I talked 
with them about it yesterday. It will be hard 
for them to let him go — especially — now.” She 
paused for a moment. “They think they can 
drive over once a month and spend a day or 
so with us. That will make it easier for us all. ’ ’ 

1 ‘ What a happy thought ! Then we will con- 
sider it settled ,’ 9 I said gratefully. Dear 
Johnny, what a comfort he will be. 

Oct . 5, 1852. This is the last time I can talk 
with you, Juna, in this dear room, before we go 
back to Barnwell. It seems almost impossible 
for us to take up our work where we laid it 
down, with the strong bright presence forever 
missed; but we must, we must, and that is 
doubtless best. Mother wanders from room to 
room to-day, with a smile, as she meets us, that 
is sadder than tears. 


CHAPTER XIII 

BLESSEDNESS OP WORK 

T HE Female Academy at Barnwell opened 
in November with a fuller enrollment 
than usual. The years of mental discipline 
stood the principal and her assistant in good 
stead in this their time of need. As, with mind 
and purpose concentrated on their task, they 
came before their pupils in quiet composure, 
nothing seemed changed, except that each bore 
herself with added dignity and sweetness. As 
one of the girls expressed it : 

‘ ‘ Miss Banner is more beautiful and kinder 
than ever, and Mrs. Banner, in her widow’s 
gown, is as lovely as she can be. If any one 
dares to break rules and be mean to them, let 
us make that girl wish she never had been born 
in Barnwell.” 

The daily routine of duty brought, as always, 
its blessing to the Banner home. Faltering 
hands grew firm, faltering hearts strong, as the 
burden of pain and bereavement was accepted 
and bravely borne. Life could never be the 
same, but it must be lived day by day. 

Robert Courtney came to them frequently, 
and with infinite consideration comforted and 
163 


164 


BORIS 


helped them all. Mrs. Banner leaned on him 
more and more as the months went on, until 
their relationship became almost that of mother 
and son. He treated Keren with a deference 
that was beautiful to see and that assured her 
of his constant sympathy. Doris he understood 
better than she knew, and her hours of conflict 
as she asked again and again the world-old 
questions: “Is it right? Does God care?’ ’ 

Robert was strong enough to hold himself 
in brotherly reserve, and wait — for what? 

Johnny, who was filling his place as general 
utility man most satisfactorily, brought his 
Aunt Doris a letter one day, with the remark: 

“I don’t know who that is from, but that 
writing has always such a cock-sure look I’d 
like to kick whoever wrote it.” 

“You naughty boy, that is very impertinent. 
Give me the letter and go and fill the kitchen 
wood-box for penance,” exclaimed Doris with 
mock severity. 

She knew the writing well enough and, going 
to Mark’s room (which she had taken for her 
own), she sat at the table and broke the seal: 

“My promised wife,” she read, “I was, of 
course, glad to get your letter, but I must say 
that I do not understand your continued grief, 
which you say still darkens your sky. I pro- 


BLESSEDNESS OF WORK 165 


test against such indulgence in mourning, and 
repeat what I have said before, that you ought 
to shake yourself free from it, at least in great 
measure, and find your sufficient joy in me. No 
one but a husband should dictate to a wife. I 
stand in such a relation to you except for the 
ceremony that shall make us one. I insist that 
you shall not brood over the past; give it up 
and look to our glorious future. I cannot brook 
any divided affection, even for the dead. I must 
require ” 

The scales fell from Doris’s blinded eyes as 
with a flash of lightning. She sprang up. 

4 ‘ And this is the man to whom I vowed I must 
be true.” 

She paced the floor with vehement energy. 

“Oh, Mark,” she wailed, “you were right; 
how could I have been so blind! How I have 
hurt you, how I have grieved mother, by my 
obstinacy, and yet I was trying to do right. 
Love him, love that supremely selfish egoist, as 
I see him now? Never, never. What have I 
loved, whom have I loved? A dream, an ideal, 
which never bore the slightest resemblance to 
the actual man. Mark told me, but I did not 
believe. I thought he was prejudiced. Now 
I see, I see — instead of the knight of my imagi- 
nation, great and good — a shrivelled weakling, 


166 


DORIS 


a puny dwarf. I will ask him to release me at 
once. If he will not, what shall I do, what shall 
I do?” 

As was her wont, Doris came to her journal, 
with the opening of the new year, and we read 
there a record of the intense life that filled these 
days of her rapidly maturing womanhood. 

Barnwell, January 1, 1853 . Again on my 
birthday, Juna, I come to talk with you as with 
a friend. I am not the child I was when you 
first knew me. What a comfort you have been 
in joy and sorrow! Life has not been always 
easy to bear, even in prosperous days. There 
are so many questionings that come to a 
woman’s soul; such an unconquerable hunger; 
such aspirations that strain her heart heaven- 
ward; such tumult; such glimpses of frighten- 
ing depths, that she must needs be led by love 
to the firm and upward path. Thank God ! such 
divine and earthly love have guided my feet. I 
look back with profound gratitude on this first 
day of another year. 

God is good. Not only do I believe it intel- 
lectually, as a fact, but I feel it in my heart. I 
accept sorrow and loss as my portion, without 
protest. God knows best. I will try to be 
braver and better ; a more devoted daughter ; a 
more unselfish sister ; a more inspiring teacher. 

Mother bears up nobly. Though the iron has 


BLESSEDNESS OF WORK 167 


entered her soul, she does not forget that she 
still has children who need her. Keren’s sweet 
fortitude is beautiful, her sense of possession 
wonderful. She says she wears a crown, the 
crown of wifehood; her husband is waiting for 
her, and she must live worthily until she may 
go to him. Sometimes her grief is pathetic to 
see, and then only mother can comfort her. 

I look back with deep gratitude to an event 
in the last year, Juna. I am free, free. In 
answer to my earnest request, John Allen has 
released me from my engagement. I wrote as 
kindly as I knew how, and told him that I could 
not give him the kind of love he asked for, and 
that I felt it would he better for us to part. He 
answered immediately, saying : 

“I have just received your letter, and answer 
at once. I should have been the first to make 
this proposition, since I have seen for some 
time that you were entertaining unwomanly 
ideas of independent thought. I judge that you 
have been somewhat influenced by the writings 
of certain masculine women who advocate civic 
rights for men and women. This would neces- 
sarily destroy the sanctity of the home, where 
the husband should have full control of his fam- 
ily. There are other young women in the world 
who hold saner ideas. It is from such as these 


168 


BORIS 


that I would choose a life-long companion. 
Such women are better adapted to my refined 
and sensitive nature. We will consider that all 
relations between us, from this time forth, are 
severed. John Allen.” 

I feel that I have been freed from intolerable 
shackles, and I wonder, oh, I wonder if my 
brother knows! 

I showed the letter to mother and her face 
lighted with joy, such as we have not seen since 
Mark went away. She kissed me and said : 

“My dear child, I am deeply thankful, and 
congratulate you that at last you see the truth 
and are free.” 

What amazes me, Juna, is this : How could I 
have ever been so blind ! 

‘ 4 Children, ’ ’ said Mrs. Banner at the beginning 
of the new year, “open the piano and let us 
have some music once more.” 

“Oh, mother,” protested Doris, “how can 
we?” 

“Yes, dear, we must. I think Mark will miss 
something out of the heavenly harmonies if we 
have no music here. For his sake, Doris.” 

So gradually they resumed the habit of 
gathering about the piano and singing, without 
the soaring sweetness of a voice for which they 


BLESSEDNESS OF WORK 169 

listened in vain. Little by little Doris and 
Keren took np their systematic practice and 
played as before to an appreciative group 
around the fire. 

As the winter months wore away there was a 
springtime stirring in Robert Courtney’s soul. 
Mrs. Banner had told him of Doris’s freedom. 
It made a perceptible difference in her bearing. 
She walked as if she had dropped a heavy 
burden, and something of the old elasticity 
came to her step. 

A chastened Doris wandered alone by an un- 
frequented path, toward upland trees, one fra- 
grant June afternoon. She was leaving the care 
of the schoolroom behind its closed doors, and 
sought the harmonious stillness of the summer 
woods for rest. They had always quieted her 
tumultuous moods in childhood, and now she 
felt a welcome greeting as she entered into 
their sanctuary of peace. She found her fa- 
vorite nook between the gnarled roots of an 
old oak tree, and leaning against its rugged 
bark, sat long, looking out over valley and hill- 
side. She watched white clouds floating softly 
in the summer air, followed the flight of skim- 
ming swallows, “that dip their wings in tears,” 
with dreamy interest; but only the birds saw 
the look of pain gathering in her eyes, the little 


170 


DORIS 


hand pressed tightly on her heart, or heard the 
long and quivering breath, the half-whispered 
words: “Oh, Robert, if you only knew” — and 
after a moment the yearning sobs from a long- 
ing heart — “Oh, Robert, Robert, my love, if you 
only knew!” 

Only the birds saw her struggle for mastery 
and knew when, weary with the conflict, she fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER XIV 

LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 

O N that June afternoon Robert Courtney 
went to visit a sick child on an out- 
lying farm, and turning toward home, he came 
upon a dim but familiar path leading over the 
crest of a hill. He paused for a moment, turned 
sharply from the country road, and walked 
slowly up and up by an easy ascent, absorbed in 
thought. The world ? s hurt had struck anew into 
his soul, as he stood beside that deformed, suf- 
fering bit of humanity, with its beautiful face, 
luminous eyes and patient smile. The old tor- 
turing question, “Why?” turned again and 
again the sword within him, until he reached 
the bend in the path that led to Barnwell vil- 
lage, lying in the valley below. He paused to 
take a deep breath, lifted his face and 
whispered: “I do not know. God does, and 
that is enough.” 

He went on slowly, pausing with a start of 
surprise as he came within sight of the old oak, 
and Doris at its foot. She had wakened re- 
freshed from her light sleep, but was so ab- 
sorbed in thought that she did not hear his ap- 
proach. He watched her for a moment — the 
171 


172 


DORlSi 


Dryad of her sheltering tree. Stray gleams of 
sunshine filtered through its leaves and settled 
on her clustering curls. Her hands lay lightly in 
her lap, until she suddenly sat erect, stretching 
out her arms and folding them on her breast, 
as if she gathered into her heart all the beauty 
and the brooding peace about her as her own 
possession. 

“Dear little girl,” thought Robert, “how she 
has suffered, and how lovely she has grown.” 

He kicked a stone noisily from the path, an- 
other and another, and, going a few steps 
nearer, met her astonished eyes. 

“Robert Courtney, you here?” 

“Yes, Doris; why not? Have you preempted 
the hill, the oak tree and everything you see? 
May I sit down?” 

“Of course you may. This old place is as 
comfortable as a couch, and I fell asleep. 
Everything was too beautiful and restful when 
I waked to leave. But it must be six 
o’clock.” She sprang to her feet. “What will 
mother think has happened to me? I must 
hurry home.” 

“It is after six,” said Robert, consulting his 
watch. ‘ ‘ Shall I walk down with you ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, if you like. I seem to have no sense of 
passing time, and must need somebody to take 
care of me . 9 9 


LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 173 


They went on in silence, through a pasture, 
fragrant with clumps of sweet fern and tangles 
of wild roses here and there. 

‘ ‘ This always makes me think of Huckleberry 
Hill at home, ,, said Doris at last. “I can al- 
most hear the tink-tink of our pails as we three 
children went berrying. ’ ’ 

She stumbled over a rough stone. 

“You do need some one to take care of you, 
Doris,” said Robert quietly, as he saved her 
from falling; “will you let me do it, so long 
as we both shall live? Before God,” he ex- 
claimed, with sudden passion and with out- 
stretched hands, “I believe, and have long be- 
lieved, that you are mine — mine — that you 
never have been and never can be another’s. 
Doris, Doris, my love ” 

She lifted her face, her violet eyes, clear and 
sweet, looking frankly into his. She held out 
her hands with a charming gesture of sur- 
render, and answered quietly, though with 
trembling lips : 

“Robert, I will. I have known it, too, ever 
since, ever since ” 

Her voice failed her, and she hid her burning 
face in the strong arms waiting to receive her. 

And so, after tumult and sorrow, after much 
tossing to and fro in blinding storm, they came 
into love’s harbor, land-locked and secure. 


174 


DORIS 


Whatever might befall, these waters would hold 
safe anchorage. The passion that must rush 
on to swift possession Robert had, with manly 
effort, put behind him, and with the infinitely 
stronger passion, that can wait for its fruition, 
had bided his time. He realized now that he 
had received his exceeding great reward in 
Doris ’s freely given love. 

“Will you give her to me, mother ?” asked 
Robert as they met Mrs. Banner at the door, 
where she was watching for Doris. 

“With great gladness, my son,” she answered 
tenderly. ‘ ‘ I did not think anything could make 
me so happy again. ’ ’ 

The mother bent over Doris, before she slept 
that night, with the child’s loving arms about 
her neck. 

“Do you think Mark knows, mother?” 

“I believe it, dear, and that he is happier 
for the knowing.” 

“I wish I could tell him. I am afraid he went 
away with a heartache about me.” 

“Yes, darling; but it was only for your sake; 
don’t be troubled about that. He wished that 
you might love Robert. ’ ’ 

“He wants me to be glad, I know; and, oh, 
mother, I am so happy, so rested. It is very 
different from the — other experience. I under- 
stand now how Keren is able to bear her sorrow 


LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 175 


so bravely. It is the infinite joy of loving and 
being loved.” 

There was no reason for delaying the mar- 
riage, and Robert begged for an early day. 

‘ 4 Keren,” said Doris, “you will take charge 
of the school? I am sure you can get a com- 
petent assistant from Mt. Holyoke. I will go 
before the committee at once. I know they will 
be glad to have you as principal.” 

“Yes, Doris,” answered Keren, with her 
usual simple directness. “I cannot take your 
place, but I will do the best I can.” 

“You will take your own place, dear, just as 
large a one as mine, and you will fill it just 
as efficiently. I believe that in the end you will 
do better than I have done, my brave sister.” 

She could not trust herself to say more, and 
hastily left the room. The Female Academy 
closed another successful year with exercises 
of more than ordinary interest. Doris and 
Keren led a procession of white-robed damsels, 
fluttering with ribbons and curls, from the 
schoolroom to the Congregational Church. 
They sang, recited and read essays before an 
admiring audience of friends and relativea 
The pastor, Robert Courtney, made a short ad- 
dress, and Doris, calling to the front a class of 
five young ladies, who had completed the course 


176 


DORIS 


of study, presented them with the diploma of 
the school in a few well-chosen words. A mem- 
ber of the committee, pompous but sympathetic, 
thanked the teachers for their efforts and an- 
nounced that the Female Academy would be 
continued, if under changed conditions, with not 
less efficiency. 

The Banner house was to he closed for the 
school vacation and the family were making 
ready for their journey to the farm. 

“ Doris,’ ’ said Keren, “I want you to do 
something for me. Will you?” 

‘ ‘ Anything, sister mine,” answered Doris 
brightly. 

Keren left the room and returned with a large 
box. 

“A little less than a year ago I was making 
my wedding-gown. You know it was never 
finished,” she went on, with a far-away look in 
her eyes. “See, Doris.” She lifted folds of 
shimmering white and held them in the light. 
“Will you wear it on your wedding day? T 
know Mark would like it ; don ’t refuse me. ’ ’ 

“I can refuse you nothing, Keren,” answered 
Doris gently, her eyes blind with tears. “Mark 
gave us a precious gift when he gave us you.” 


CHAPTER XV 
FRUITION 

DARNWELL, June 15, 1855 . Juna, I am sit- 
^ ting in my husband’s study, in our Barn- 
well home, which we now call the Parsonage. 
I am so thankful that Robert was willing to 
come here. You knew that long ago, but I love 
to talk over the things that make me glad. It 
is a very happy home. Dear mother divides her 
time between Amelia and me. She is a treasure 
which we are almost ready to fight over. Rob- 
ert is her devoted son, and sometimes, when he 
visits a sorrow-stricken home, he takes her there 
and leaves her for a while, saying: 1 * She will 
comfort you better than I.” 

Her hair is as white as silver and her heart 
as warm and sweet as June sunshine, and yet 
I feel often that her life is already largely in 
the other world, and that when the time comes 
for her to go she will step softly into another 
room, into the dear presence of those she loves, 
and be more truly at home there than here. 

Keren is a wonderful teacher. She is really 
making another Mt. Holyoke, and the Female 
Academy prospers greatly under her care. At 
our earnest request, she has kept her old room 
177 


178 


DORIS 


here, and she has such exquisite tact that we 
never feel her presence an intrusion. We can 
never be thankful enough for the greatly loved 
sister and daughter my dear brother gave to us. 
She spends her vacations with mother at the 
farm. 

Amelia is a lovely matron, and Charles as 
kind a son and brother as ever. I tell you pri- 
vately, Juna, that I believe that much of the 
trouble with mothers-in-law is their own fault ; 
but then I know that Robert and Charles are 
unusual men. 

The twins! They are nearly six feet high. 
Dear Jimmy is an excellent farmer, and as 
merry-hearted and witty as ever. Under 
Amelia’s tuition he has learned to love good 
reading, and devours, besides, everything he 
can find on what he calls his “profession.” 
Why not? 

Johnny has developed so differently. He 
spends his school time with us, a useful boy and 
thorough student, of whom we are all proud. 
He will be ready for college in another year. 

Somehow I must go on and on to-night, Juna, 
talking of those I love. 

Robert is everything that a husband can be. 
We have many tastes in common and read much 
together — history, poetry and literature. One 
of our chief delights is-a^d^y study of the 


FRUITION 


179 


Greek New Testament, in the hour just after 
supper. I am a minister’s wife, Juna, and I 
must be equipped, as well as I may, to lead 
wandering feet to the cross of the Christ. My 
heart swells with gratitude as I write that this 
joy has more than once been mine. I try to 
comfort those in sorrow and to rejoice with 
hearts to whom gladness comes in full measure. 
I wonder whether great joy and great sorrow 
are alike necessary if one would be a com- 
forter. I have known the radiant heights of 
the one, the despairing depths of the other. 

We have our faults, Robert and I, and recog- 
nize them in our effort to conquer them, each 
for the other’s sake. We do not find it hard 
to forgive each other, because the need for 
pardon is like a feather in the balance. The 
other side is heavily weighted, beyond all com- 
putation, with love. 

Robert’s life-long homesickness has found its 
consolation, he says, in the dearest wife, 
and 

And now, Juna, I have something new to tell 
you, of which you have only known the prom- 
ise. Wait a moment 

A baby is lying in my lap — my own little son. 
As I bend over him he opens his great gray eyes 
and smiles, and his name is 

Makk Bannee Couetney. 


DEC 22 1913 


















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